


Close Quarters

by Heavenward (PreludeInZ)



Series: TAG DeviantAU [5]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Drug Addiction, Gen, Recovery, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2018-11-28 11:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 76,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11416533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreludeInZ/pseuds/Heavenward
Summary: Being an account of what actually happened during the first twenty-four hours of a very fateful Spring Break. Takes place in the space between Chapters 12 & 13 of The Harvard Hypocrite.





	1. Chapter 1

Gordon’s got a funny habit of winning coin tosses. No one can explain it, just how exactly his odds sometimes seem to be better than strictly fifty-fifty. Maybe it’s confirmation bias, but it always at least _seems_ like a quarter tossed in the air comes down exactly the way Gordon wants it to.

So when Virgil wakes to the smell of bacon, filling the apartment, he’s the one who wakes up in John’s bed. The sheets are grey jersey, smooth and comfortable. John opts for a rather firmer pillow than is Virgil’s preference, but overall it’s still better than the armchair next to the couch. There’s a weird abundance of blankets in his brother’s apartment. The two extras from across the end of the bed have been sequestered by Gordon, taken to the living room. Doesn’t matter. Virgil didn’t need them. The bed’s already covered with a heavy down comforter, which might not be enough for John, but is plenty for his younger brother.

He stretches out and sighs at the alarm clock beside the bed. It reads a quarter past six. Technically, this is fine, though he gives an obliging groan at having woken up so early during the hallowed allotment of leisure that’s supposed to be Spring Break. Virgil’s had a solid eight hours of sleep and really has nothing to complain about. It had been an early night for everyone, and he and Gordon are both habitually early risers anyway.

Gordon had groused and growled and grumbled about being stuck with the armchair, but as far as heads versus tails had gone, Virgil’s pretty sure Gordon had ended up where he’d wanted to be. He’d even declined when Virgil had offered him two out of three.

But then, Gordon’s got it in common with the toss of a coin that he’s got two very distinct sides, and you have to be lucky to have him come down on yours. Lying in his big brother’s bed, staring up at the ceiling, Virgil wonders if John realizes just how lucky he is.

Because if Gordon’s in the kitchen doing something as mundane as frying bacon, then John’s made it through the night. No sudden cardiac events, no need to call an ambulance. Virgil’s a light sleeper and he’d slept with the door open, but there hadn’t been a sound from the room down the hall. To say he’s relieved would be an understatement. Virgil’s been carefully avoiding thoughts about the sorts of things that might go wrong with his older brother, as though imagining them might call them into happening. He’s thankful John’s had an uneventful night.

Whether it’s going to be followed by an uneventful morning remains to be seen.

So Virgil heaves himself out of bed, stretching and rolling his shoulders. He hesitates only briefly before stepping into the hallway, not sure if he needs to tiptoe.

Virgil chews his lower lip as he walks softly into the living room. Curled up on the couch, practically in the fetal position, John _looks_ half-dead. His hands are pulled in close to his chest, and Virgil can see the tips of his fingers twitching slightly. It hadn’t been much later than eight in the evening before John had dropped off. By Virgil’s math, John’s going on ten hours of sleep. In spite of this. there are still dark smudges beneath his eyes, and he doesn’t look like he’ll be stirring any time soon.

Gordon leans out of the kitchen, hands caught on either side of the door frame. It’s March and it’s Boston and John’s apartment is chilly in the morning, but Gordon’s still wearing yoga pants, cropped to the knees, navy blue with sunshiney yellow stripes up the sides. In acknowledgment of the fact that it’s damn cold on the east coast, he’s also swimming in a slate grey hoodie, presumably pilfered from John’s front closet. The sleeves have been rolled all the way up to Gordon’s elbows and his forearms are splattered with bacon grease.

“Mornin’, Virg.” Gordon doesn’t bother to drop his voice to a whisper. “S’coffee, if you want.”

“Yeah, thanks. Morning.” Virgil circles around the coffee table to lean over the couch, get a better look at their brother.

Before he can ask, Gordon fills him in, “Was fine. Last night. I think he woke up maybe once before I crashed. Not for long, and I don’t think he _really_ woke up, just sort of muttered a bit and then went right back out.”

“That’s good, I guess.” Virgil peers at John and then second-guesses himself. “… _is_ that good?”

Gordon shrugs, retreats back into the kitchen, an unspoken invitation for Virgil to follow. As expected, there’s a pan full of bacon, being cooked slowly and carefully in small batches. There’s a carton of eggs, eighteen rather than twelve, because Gordon’s omelets are made with six apiece. A bag of frozen hash browns is slowly thawing on the counter. Virgil returns it to the freezer and turns to the coffee pot, fills a waiting mug and repeats his question, “Is it okay if he sleeps this much?”

Another shrug. For the first time in years, this is more likely because Gordon doesn’t know, and not because Gordon doesn’t care. He answers, “He’s fucking exhausted, Virg, and on his way into drug withdrawal. I don’t think we can stop him.” Gordon’s fingers grip tight around the handle of the pan he’s moving off the heat. “If he’s sleeping, then at least he’s not awake and feeling like shit,” he points out. If this is meant to be a good thing, he doesn’t make it sound like it.

“Guess so.” Virgil goes to lean in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, dividing himself between John and Gordon, same as he ever has. He sips at his coffee and pulls his phone out of the pocket of his pajama pants, thumbs his way through the usual morning hit-list—email, news, assorted social media—carefully resists the temptation to search for any information about amphetamine detox. He’s not sure he’s ready for that yet, and anyway, he trusts both Gordon and John to be better informed than a quick Google search would make him. On that note, he asks, “So…so, did _you_ ever…with this kind of thing…? Uh. Did you… hm. I mean, specifically, with this…with what John’s…”

Gordon’s finished with the bacon, has it draining on paper towels on a plate beside the stove. He’s pouring bacon grease off into another coffee cup and doesn’t look up when he answers, “What, did I ever fuck around with Adderall? No. Wasn’t ever really my speed.” He chuckles, humourless. “Pun intended.”

Virgil shakes his head. “Not really funny.”

“Wasn’t really laughing.”

Virgil clears his throat and adds, “I dunno, Gordon, I’m just asking. This all scares the shit outta me.”

“Drugs are scary.”

That’s maybe the understatement of the weekend so far. Virgil rubs at his eyes and watches John for a few more minutes, before he summons up the nerve to say, “He’s…but I mean, he’s gonna be okay, though. Right? Once he gets through it. It’s just gonna be a rough couple days, and then—“

It’s fundamentally unlike Gordon to be so stern and his voice is hard, has an edge to it when he answers, “More like weeks, V. We still haven’t got it out of him just how long he’s been _on_ the fucking drugs. This isn’t—I mean, just because this shit’s prescription doesn’t mean it hasn’t been killing him. There’s the whole other question of why he’d pick it up in the first place. I don’t know if he’s okay. I think he probably isn’t. _And_ I’m still mad at him. So it’s kinda hard not to feel a little bit like he deserves this.” Before Virgil can say anything about that, Gordon’s turned away from the counter and held a hand up to stop him. “I’m not gonna be an ass about it,” he clarifies, as his eyes cut to the doorway, indicate just exactly what he’s thinking of. “S’just how I feel.”

It puts Virgil in mind of coins again, and how Gordon and John are two sides of the same. As much as Gordon goes out of his way to broadcast his emotions, his heart affixed firmly to his sleeve and the words “how I feel” always ready and waiting—John plays everything close to the vest. John’s someone who’d play solitaire as though it were poker, betraying nothing as he moves his cards around. Even if an observant onlooker could tell it was a losing game.

If the pair of them are the faces—obverse and reverse, heads and tails—Virgil supposes that makes him the edge. Leaning up against the frame of the door between the kitchen and the living room, listening to Gordon and watching John, he thinks about being the thing that separates his brothers, just the same as he connects the pair of them. It’s an early morning thought, a quiet, careful thought, and something that his grandmother had taken him aside about, long ago.

“Welcome to middle-management,” she’d said, with her hands sandwiching one of his. It’s a funny sort of memory, because somehow it seems timeless. He can never remember just how old he was when she’d said it—whether it was right after their mom had died, or right after they’d moved out to the island, or just somewhere in the middle of his early-mid-to-late adolescence somewhere—because he only ever really remembers her hands and her voice when she’d said it, halfway proud and halfway sad. “Now that they know you’re good for it, from here on out, every last one of your brothers is going to start turning towards you. And as if that’s not bad enough, they’re gonna want to find you solid and sensible and ready to set ‘em straight. If it ever gets too much to handle, you kick ‘em right on up to me. But somehow I don’t think you’re gonna let them down all that often, Virgil.”

Half the trick, Virgil’s learned, is knowing how to play the rest of them off each other. Gordon’s turned back to the counter, started to crack eggs into a bowl and beat them into submission with a fork. He’s running water in the sink to rinse off a colander full of fresh strawberries, so it’s no wonder the blond doesn’t hear the faint shuffle from the living room couch. Virgil watches green eyes peel themselves open, bleary and confused. He clears his throat and deliberately looks away, into the kitchen as Gordon reaches over to turn the water off.

“D’you wanna talk about it?” he prompts, and switches to watching Gordon and listening to John. “About why you’re mad at him?”

This gets a short bark of sardonic laughter. “ _Ha_. Man, Virg, if it’s not obvious, then where d’you want me to start?”

Virgil shrugs, sips at his coffee, and pretends he doesn’t notice the sudden stillness that’s fallen over the living room couch, the void of sound and movement. “Well, with the obvious, then, I guess.”

“He might’ve killed himself.” Gordon flicks his wrist and cracks an egg on the countertop, then splits the shell, one handed, while he continues to work with the fork. The list goes on, “And even coming up just short of killing himself, he’s done some _serious_ harm. His heart, his _brain_. God. I hate even thinking of it. Doesn’t that make you go cold all over? I just—I grew up so hyper-conscious of my body, and how it’s a machine, and how it’s all you’ve _got_. That anyone could do something so careless—I dunno, it’s just personally offensive to me that he could fail to care. That he could hurt himself like this and _choose_ not to care. He’s sure as hell not stupid enough not to have _known_.”

This is such a fine point of emotion that it’s probably going to take _years_ to tease it out of John. Whether or not he really knew the kind of consequences it would have, what had tipped him into the solution in the first place—how he had to have felt, to do something so desperate. Virgil’s willing to play the long game, but Gordon’s always been about short term answers. “I think it’s probably not as simple as that, for John.”

Gordon’s moved on to a block of cheddar cheese, shredding it on a grater purchased yesterday, specifically for his lasagna. John’s kitchen is bare of anything beyond the very basics, as far as tools go. “Yeah. Well, that’s part of why I’m not gonna throttle him.”

Virgil resists the impulse to steal a glance at his older brother, to gauge his gratitude relative to not being throttled. He knows from long experience that John’s listening, and to catch him listening will only embarrass him. “Charitable of you.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a fucking charity case now, that’s for damn sure.” There’s a hiss and a crackle of oil as Gordon splashes a mess of beaten eggs and cheese into the pan he’s been heating on the stove. “I’ve decided,” he adds, “that I’m just going to be about one trillion times nicer to _him_ than he was to _me_. I am gonna be _better_ than he was. I am gonna out big-brother him. That’ll show his stupid ass.”

This sounds like the beginning of a manifesto. Virgil drains the rest of his coffee and lets the mug hang from his fingers as he folds his arms, arches an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? How’s that?”

Gordon continues, picking up steam and hitting his stride. “I am _not_ gonna be a condescending prick, I am _not_ gonna give him shit about things I don’t understand, I am _not_ gonna assume that just because I know a thing or two about quote-unquote ‘ _partying hard_ ’ that I therefore know anything about people who take drugs _academically_. I’m not gonna make him feel like he’s done something to Alan, by doing something like this. I’m not gonna make him feel like he’s let the whole family down. I’m not gonna make him feel like he oughta be ashamed. I am gonna take every one of the reasons why I _was_ mad at him, and I’m gonna turn ‘em right back around.” He pauses and there’s a smug sort of satisfaction about him. “That’ll teach the bastard,” he declares.

“Sounds like it’ll be effective,” Virgil comments. “Kindness by spite. I like it.”

“It satisfies a very deep need,” Gordon agrees, prosaic, working a spatula around the outside edge of the pan, folding a puffy cloud of eggs and cheese in half. For a while he concentrates on this, and Virgil casually lets his coffee mug dangle in an increasingly loose grip, til it’s barely hanging from his fingertips. He’s about to risk a glance at John, when Gordon speaks up again.

This time his voice is soft and you’d have to know Gordon as well as Virgil does to read in his body language what his tone doesn’t betray. Virgil wonders what John would make of the way their little brother’s set his shoulders, the way his hands are tight, and the way he’s intent on a task that doesn’t really take this much intensity. John would probably draw entirely the wrong conclusion. “I mean, the truth is—fuck. He’s not gonna _need_ my help to feel terrible. This isn’t like what I did. Honestly—and I know you’ve heard _this_ before, so I won’t get started about it—but you know how I still don’t feel like I actually did anything _wrong_. No guilt. Zip. Zero. No shame, either. But it’s like Scott says; how with Dad, you gotta pick your battles. I’m not gonna fight about this, with John. There’s a lot to fight about but hey, look. Me, picking my battles. But it’s like…he’s gone and made me think about what it would’ve been like to lose him and…and how things are, with him and me. John shouldn’t have to be _dead_ for me not to be able to live with that.”

It’s really very convenient, having Gordon’s heart pinned handily to his sleeve. Makes it readily accessible, easy to point to and say _There. Right there. D’you see?_ Helps that Gordon’s one of the most empathetic, emotionally articulate people Virgil’s ever _met_ , and this is with due consideration given to the fact that Virgil hangs out with psych majors on occasion.

“Are you having any bacon?” Gordon asks, breaking the conversation sharply, transitioning back to the mundane.

“You just really don’t believe me about the vegetarian thing, hey?”

“ _Ha_. Yeah, right. _Fuck_ no.”

Virgil takes the opportunity to shift his weight against the door frame—and drop his coffee cup, to fall and crack with a fantastic shatter of porcelain on ceramic. This makes Gordon jump and curse, boosting himself up to sit on the counter and avoid the shards that litter the floor. “Aw, hell, Virg—“

“Sorry, sorry—“ Virgil drops down to start gathering up shards of broken glass, and feigns guilt, glancing over his shoulder into the living room. John’s pushed himself up onto his elbows, peering into the kitchen. “Shit, John, sorry. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Oh, way to _go_ , V,” Gordon mutters sarcastically, reaches over to turn the stove off. He slides down from the counter, tiptoes around the perimeter of the kitchen and leans out through the door, bright, cheerful, and, perhaps most importantly, kind. “Good _morning_ , sunshine. You sleep okay?”

Over his shoulder, Virgil hears the query, rusty-voiced and a little disconnected, “Something break?” There’s a groan and some shuffling of blankets, the creak of the couch as John sits up. “Morning,” he adds absently. “Gordon? Wh-what broke?”

“S’just a coffee mug, bro, Virgil’s wrecking up the place. Vegetarians, you know, they’re _such_ assholes. I’ll make sure he buys you a new one. You hungry, Johnny? Ha, don’t answer that. You want four eggs in your omelet, or six?”


	2. Chapter 2

Virgil’s doing the dishes. Gordon’s straightening up the living room. John’s taking a shower, on Gordon’s suggestion; nice and hot, to help relax some of the tension out of him, white noise to help him keep calm, and some privacy to let him find his center again.

Gordon’s phone sits in the middle of the kitchen table, crowded by three plates, two coffee cups, a half-finished glass of orange juice, and a pan that’s still got pancakes and bacon nestled inside.

And it doesn’t ring, exactly, so much as it _blares_ the sinister and imposing refrain of _The Imperial March_ from Star Wars. And their father’s picture flashes up on the screen.

But then, Gordon’s never exactly been what you’d call subtle.

Virgil turns the water off and turns away from the sink as Gordon comes into the kitchen, plucks his phone neatly out of the mess on the table, and shrugs in response to his brother’s exaggerated eyeroll. “I call ‘em like I see ‘em, brah,” he answers cheerfully, and taps his thumb on the middle of the screen to take the call. “Good _morning_ , Lord Vader. I mean, Darth Father. Lord Dadder. I mean, _Dad._ “

Virgil doesn’t know exactly how Gordon gets away with it, but his grin doesn’t diminish as he listens to whatever Dad has to say in answer.

“ …yessir. Sorry, sir. S’just how I’m at John’s place and the nerdiness is catching. I think I might be terminal. Next time I’ll probably answer in Klingon. Try and remember me how I was.”

There’s a long pause from Gordon and Virgil rests his hands on the counter, leans back to listen. It’s Sunday morning. There’s light through the living room window spilling across the apartment into the kitchen, and Gordon’s parked himself at the kitchen table. There’s the sound of the shower running, through the bathroom door that Gordon had opened a crack.

Everything’s different, but Virgil’s thoughts still drift back to Friday night, to his big brother heaving his guts into the sink, bringing up nothing but bile and whiskey, and then slumping to the floor. The way something had been so obviously wrong, _really_ wrong. Virgil had bent down to help John up, and the _life_ had just gone out of him. His older brother had just _shut off_ , like someone had yanked his batteries out. Virgil hadn’t known what to do but half-carry, half-drag him over to the couch and try to shake him awake, unbuttoning his shirt and feeling the heat coming off him, and not having the first idea why, or what to do about it.

He probably should’ve called an ambulance. The thought had definitely crossed his mind. But for better or worse, he’d called Gordon instead.

Friday night seems like a lifetime ago, and exists on the other side of the reality that his big brother is a drug addict.

And now it’s Sunday morning, and Virgil’s not sure if his big brother’s any closer to getting the kind of help he needs.

Distantly, he hears the shower turn off, but it doesn’t quite register. Gordon’s concluding his conversation with their father, and his chair scrapes slightly across the kitchen tile as he pushes it back and gets to his feet. “…hm. I mean, yeah…it’s just…well, lemme think—no, no, no, it’s not that I don’t want—gimme a second, Dad, cripes. Lemme ask the guys, okay? I’ll call you back. —yeah. Yeah. Yeahuhhuh. Yeahhhno. _No_ , Dad. Jesus. Lemme call back. Mmhm. Mmhm. Mm’kay. Mm’Bye.”

Gordon hangs up and Virgil punches him in the shoulder. “How the hell d’you get away with talking to him like that?”

“What, Dad?” Gordon’s grin broadens. “Like how, like as if he’s my actual damn dad?”

“Like a mouthy little _shit_ , Gordon, fuck’s sake.” Virgil shakes his head, despairing. “You’re supposed to be staying on his good side,” he laments. “ _Now_ , especially, with the state John’s in—“

“Did that not sound like his good side?”

“If _I_ ever tried to talk to him like that—“ Virgil trails off, sighs.

His little brother just shrugs, rubs his nose. His phone flips over and over in his other hand. “Look. It’s what works. Dad’s—I got a lot wrong, about Dad. I’m learning that. Was always easy, for you and Scooter, you just…fall in line. You’ve always known what he expects from you. I’m learning what he expects from me. We’re still hashing it out, but this is…so far, this is what works. We’re good, V. Calm your shit.”

“You say so.”

Gordon’s grin flashes up again, “Don’t you wanna know why he called?”

Virgil turns away, back to the dishes that still need doing. He’s pretty sure that between the three of them, over breakfast, they’ve dirtied every last dish John owns. “Yeah, sure.”

“Well, I called _him_ last night. Wanted to try and run down a pool we could rent out, go somewhere nice and quiet and private and just…you know, kinda relax for a while, screw around and have fun, like when we were kids. You maybe don’t remember, and he kinda quit when I got serious about it, but John used to like to swim too, y’know.”

“I remember.” Probably better than Gordon does, actually. Virgil remembers weekly trips to the Y, or the outdoor pool at the park, and remembers how they’d all had swimming lessons. He remembers that John had liked it, been good at it—‘built for it’, the instructors had said, with his long limbs, slender torso, to say nothing of his intense level of focus. John’s always been smart, but being told he might also be _athletic_ , in a family where smart was considered par for the course—pride has always looked fairly subtle on his older brother, but Virgil remembers the way there’d been a certain sort of eagerness about John after that, whenever it was time to go to the pool.

And maybe it’d been the fact that there were people paying attention to John at _all_ that had gotten Gordon spun up, gotten _him_ interested in the same attention. And maybe he hadn’t meant to steal center stage, maybe it was only the desire to have something in common with their big brother that had him attempting to compete with John at all (Virgil knows Gordon a little too well to believe this interpretation is anything but extremely charitable)—but whatever the case, shortly after Gordon got started, Virgil remembers how John had quietly stopped.

Virgil wonders when the last time John went swimming actually was. Wonders if he might enjoy it again. It was thoughtful of Gordon to think of it, anyway, and thoughtfulness in Gordon should always be encouraged. “Sounds like a good idea. So, Dad found somewhere?”

“Well. Not _exactly_. Apparently the Dean of Admissions owes ol’ Dad a favour, and _apparently_ he’s got a cabin a few hours out of town, a little thing on the beach. Quiet. Private. Good for hiding your broken-down drug addict brother away from prying eyes. You know, anyone who might happen to know who he is, might be willing to sell his story to the tabloids out of pure _spite_. M’just sayin’.”

Virgil’s aware that Gordon speaks from personal experience, here. And Gordon might just be onto something.

But it’s not up to Gordon.

“Well,” Virgil says, the middleman as always, even if things between John and Gordon are slowly starting to defrost. “Tell you what. You ask him. I’m game for anything, if John is. If you can get him on board, then I’ll start packing the car. Try and salvage _something_ decent out of the wreckage, as far as spring break goes.”

Gordon grins at this. “Better start packing, V-card.”

“You haven’t even talked to him yet.”

Gordon’s grin becomes a smirk. “Brother mine, I could sell a drowning man a glass of water, I promise you, I can sell the speedfreak on the idea of going somewhere less horrible than this goddamned barebones nightmare apartment.”

“It’s not a ‘ _nightmare apartment_ ‘.”

But it’s not Virgil who says this.

Their brother’s bare feet across the hardwood haven’t made enough noise to catch either of their notice, so to find John standing in the kitchen doorway makes Virgil feel suddenly guilty, for talking about him behind his back.

And maybe it’s the mid-morning light—the way the sunshine filling the apartment almost doesn’t seem _right_ , considering everything that’s happened—but getting a proper look at his brother, it’s as though Virgil suddenly sees him differently, in context now.

Scott and John are tall and slender, Virgil and Gordon are shorter and stocky, and the jury’s still out on Alan, but he’s trending towards the former. That’s just how things are. Looking at John and noticing he’s thin is like looking at the sky and noticing it’s blue. John’s neat and trim and always _has_ been—but now the context has changed. And with even an amateur artist’s eye, Virgil suddenly notices the shape of his face, the way his cheekbones stand out. The contour of his jaw seems like it’s changed. His collarbones are sharp, plainly evident beneath his skin, above the collar of his t-shirt. His t-shirt doesn’t actually fit him, the sleeves of it are loose around his upper arms. Once upon a time, John had qualified to row crew for Harvard, and Virgil remembers being impressed and happy for his big brother. Now John’s arms are all bony elbows and rawbone wrists, folded tautly across his chest, almost more like he’s in pain than like he’s angry.

But that doesn’t track, because as far as Virgil’s aware there’s no reason for John to be hurt, and he’s _definitely_ angry as he continues, voice rising, “And I’m not a _speed freak_. And I didn’t _ask_ you to come here, Gordon, so maybe try and remember that you’re not actually _welcome_.”

Virgil’s still up to his wrists in soapy water and he tries to be somewhat casual as he fumbles for a dish towel, already imagining ahead to the sort of swearing, shouting, shoving fight that seems like it might be in the offing, the sort of fight he’ll need to break up—but Gordon surprises him. Gordon immediately backs off. And apologizes.

He holds his hands up, palms out in mock surrender. “You’re right. Sorry, Johnny, you’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. Any of that. I run my mouth and I’m a shithead sometimes. I meant—I guess I meant that this place just seems kinda…hollow. It’s empty and lonely and there’s not much to do—and I guess I just…I don’t see much of _you_ here.” Gordon directs a meaningful glance around the kitchen. “This place is—I mean, John, you’re just _barely_ living here.”

John’s still defensive, hostile as he answers, “It’s fine.”

It’s not, really. Now that Gordon’s pointed it out, it rings especially true. It’s another thing that gains context. What Virgil had mistaken for minimalism is actually just plain old emptiness. There are no pictures on the walls, the cupboards are nearly empty, John has no possessions beyond the bare minimum. Virgil shared a room with John for years, and his brother’s half of the space was always books and star charts and halfway disassembled telescopes, assorted computers in various stages of salvage or repair. There’s none of that here, and guilt creeps up Virgil’s spine, at the way this has gotten past him. The way he’d failed to notice, on Friday night. He swallows and speaks up, hesitant and doubtful, “Is it, though? It seems pretty bleak, John, honestly.”

Gordon’s slipped his hands into the front pocket of his borrowed hoodie, and he nods emphatically. “There’s a _lotta_ bad energy here, Johnny. Nothing’s quite right. The vibe in this place is _not good_. I think something’s gotta change, if you’re gonna have a proper chance at this.”

This is probably the wrong tack to take with John, and their big brother scowls. “I’m not interested in any of your new-agey Californian bullshit, Gordon. If you start talking about _feng-shui_ or whatever the fuck else, I’m kicking you out. I don’t want to hear it.”

Gordon rolls his eyes. “It’s _not_ new-agey Californian bullshit, that’s just how I talk.”

“I don’t think that’s what he means, either,” Virgil interjects, playing the middle-man again, translating. “Friday night? That was _really shitty_ , John. For all of us, but _especially_ for you. It’s not…it’s just that it’s a negative association. It was a bad way to start things off. So I think we should try again; I think we should take another shot. It’s still Spring Break. Let’s try and salvage it, a little.”

It’s not much of an assault, but caught between both of his little brothers, John’s shoulders drop slightly, and he sighs, shakes his head. “Why does it even matter?”

Gordon’s already winding up his sales pitch. “Because I don’t think we should _stay_ here. Less because of what the place is like and more because I think a change of scenery would help.”

So far Gordon’s also doing all the heavy lifting, but Virgil’s caught on to the fact that John will back down if they tag-team him. So he turns away from the sink and wipes his hands on his dish towel, before voicing his agreement, making his stance seem wholly practical. “There’s also not quite enough space for the three of us here. We can find someplace else, somewhere we can all get a little more breathing room. Nobody has to sleep in your living room chair.”

“Considering he’s gone and ruined my entire fucking life, Gordon’s _more_ than welcome to leave.”

If this is a meant to be a joke—or more probably, meant to be a deliberate jab at Gordon, Gordon doesn’t actually rise to it. Not _really_ , not like he could. Not like he always has in the past. But Virgil sees the tic of his jaw, the way he squares his shoulders and shifts his posture. Gordon’s brown eyes go agate-hard and narrow, just slightly.

And there’s the first flash of temper, the all-too-familiar cycle of mutual frustration between John and Gordon, sparking and flaring off one another, just the same as they always have. “Well, the object of the exercise is to make sure that you’re still alive to _have_ a life, Johnny. You need help. We just wanna help.”

John sneers at this and the same disdain, the same contempt from that awful first night are back in full force. “You’re not going to _help_. I feel awful. I’m not going to _stop_ feeling awful. And it’s not because of _where_ I am, it’s because I’m in fucking _withdrawal_.”

“Yeah, and on that count, you _should_ be in a fucking _hospital_ , so you should be grateful that I’m not planning on—“

“You can’t _make_ me—“

“Like _hell_ I can’t—“

Both of them have raised their voices now, and Virgil intervenes before this can get any further, steps between Gordon and John, into the shrinking distance between them, before they really get in each other’s faces. “ _Guys_ , stop. Jesus. Just _stop_ a second, okay? John, Gordon. Stop. Please.”

He puts a steadying hand on John’s shoulder and butts the heel of his palm up against Gordon’s chest, because Gordon maybe hasn’t realized that he’s been advancing on John, and may not yet recognize that a solid shove would just crumple their brother, like he’s made of paper. John’s got two inches of height on Virgil, and probably more like _five_ on Gordon, but the youngest easily makes up in muscularity what he lacks in height.

Beneath the palm of his hand, Virgil can feel his elder brother trembling.

And he can’t tell if John’s cold or tired or just _that_ angry—but there’s a twist of guilty anxiety in Virgil’s guts, that he’s allowed John to get this worked up.

All of John’s attention is still fixed on Gordon, all his fire and fear and fury as he spits, “Don’t _threaten me_. Don’t you _dare_ tell me I should be grateful for _anything_ you’ve done, or anything you may or may _not_ do. Cut it the fuck out, Gordon, because if I can’t make _you_ go, then _I’ll_ leave.”

“No one’s going anywhere,” Virgil interrupts again, muscling past the shock of raw, cold fear that this statement precipitates. That his older brother is a drug addict is bad enough, the idea that he would threaten to pack up his addiction and just _leave_ is a _nightmare_. Virgil takes a deep breath and summons up some of their father’s authority. He tries to sound stern as he says, “Gordon, go get dressed. John, sit down a minute. You’re shaking.”

Despite the raw, electric tension in him, John complies as Virgil drops a hand to his elbow and tugs him out of the doorway. He hooks an ankle around one of the kitchen chairs and pulls it out, motions to it, in such a way that indicates that it’s not a suggestion. John drops heavily into the chair like a sullen child, slumps over the kitchen table and buries his face in his arms. Gordon, despite his recent idiocy, takes the hint that he’s been making things worse and leaves the kitchen, lingering for the barest moment in the doorway.

Which is probably better, in the long run, but still leaves Virgil standing uncertainly in the middle of the kitchen, far less assured in how to deal with this than Gordon is, even if Gordon clearly isn’t helping. The silence stretches out moment by moment, seems to solidify layer upon layer, so that Virgil doesn’t know how to break it. There’s a razor’s edge to this new reality, the truth about his brother—that John’s a drug addict, that he’s done this to himself, and that right now Virgil’s seeing him at what must be the absolute lowest point in his life.

And there are differences between empathy and sympathy. Virgil can’t put himself in John’s place, because he’s never been there. He can’t even conceive of what it must feel like, he has no frame of reference. Not like Gordon does. Gordon’s been at rock bottom, looking up. He wonders how it would make John feel, to know that Virgil can see echoes of Gordon in him, from that awful debacle after the Olympics.

But even if he can’t really understand, from the outside, plainly, he can see that his brother’s suffering. The thought bites deep and sharp, sends sympathy pain wrenching through him, for the way John must be hurting. There’s a lump in Virgil’s throat and he has to swallow past it before he can manage to murmur, “Hey…” and then utterly and completely fail to know what to say next. He clears his throat again and pulls out another of the chairs, sits down beside his brother. When he gingerly attempts to put a comforting hand on John’s shoulder again, Virgil can still feel him shaking.

In spite of this, John’s voice seems steadier than it has any right to be when he says, muffled, with his face still hidden between his arms, “You can’t let him tell anyone.”

“I won’t,” Virgil promises automatically, just because he wants to say something that’ll make his big brother feel better, make him pick up his head from the table and make eye-contact. “He didn’t mean it. You know how Gordon is, he just…like he said, he runs his mouth sometimes. He’s not gonna—“

John lifts his head and Virgil immediately wishes he hadn’t, because there’s a brightness, an intensity in his glassy green eyes that makes him look unbalanced. There’s burning green fire and fixation and _ferocity_ as he declares, “I hate him.”

This, again, is not unlike the behavior of a petulant child, but to hear it from his usually calm and generally good-natured older brother—it makes Virgil’s stomach twist again, even as he tries to be firm and adult and mature as he answers, “No, you don’t.”

“You wouldn’t know. He’s always _liked_ you, he never did anything but torment _me_. And _you_ brought him to my place and he went digging through my stuff and _ruined my life_ and _now_ he—“ John trails off, and his voice tremors slightly before he regains the same fervour as before. “He wants to humiliate me. He wants everyone to think I’m just as bad as he ever was, but I’m _not_. What _he_ did was stupid and selfish and childish and _idiotic_ , but I…when I…I did what I _had_ to. I didn’t _want_ this, but I needed…I just had to find some way that I could…”

“John, we _both_ just want to help you. I promise that’s all we want.”

“I’m not going to a hospital. He can’t make me.”

Virgil suspects that, if it comes to it and it becomes be easy, it’s not going to be Gordon who makes that happen. So he hedges, “Well…but, John, if you _need_ to, though—“

“I won’t.”

“If something happens—“

“I don’t care. Let it.”

“ _John_.” Virgil feels like he’s been punched in the chest, hard and square and right in the sternum, tightness and shock and pain. It needles sharply at another secret he’s keeping. “Don’t…Christ, don’t talk like that. John? _Please_ , don’t say shit like that.”

This new version of his big brother is fierce and angry and apparently indifferent in his self-destruction—but something about the plaintive break in Virgil’s voice must give him pause. The fire dies down and he subsides, sinks back to rest his head in his arms again as he sighs and falls silent. It seems like there’s a very long silence before there’s a muffled, “…Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Virgil answers, immediate and automatic and not even a little bit true, because it’s not okay. None of this is okay. And he wishes more than anything that he knew what to do, or at least what to _say_ —wishes he knew how to do anything but sit here, in this incongruently bright and depressingly empty apartment, rubbing a hand across his brother’s back and wishing desperately that he knew of some way to make things better, somehow.

Virgil doesn’t have any ideas of his own. But he has one of Gordon’s.

John won’t want to hear it from their little brother, but maybe Gordon’s right. Maybe they need to get out of here. It’s Gordon who’d been so sure he could sell the idea, but it’s Virgil who suddenly hits upon what he needs to say in order to get John interested. His trembling’s slowly starting to ease, and the energy for anger seems to be dwindling slowly out of him, moment by silent moment. It’s exhaustion, more than it’s composure or calm, but Virgil will still take it. He clears his throat, and waits until John picks up his head again—until he pushes himself up off the table and rubs at damp, tired eyes—before he says, “Can I ask you something? Just one thing, just…just one reason why I think Gordon’s maybe had a good idea. I think you might like it if you thought about it.”

And it’s defeat, resignation, more than it is curiosity that has John shrug and ask, “What?”

“When was the last time you saw the stars, John?”


	3. Chapter 3

Instead of having gone to get dressed, Virgil finds Gordon standing out on the balcony which—in March, in New England, in bare feet and cropped yoga pants—is about as close to self-flagellation as Gordon will get, with his general intolerance of cold. Before Virgil can even get a word out to upbraid his younger brother for his behaviour, Gordon’s already got his hands up, concessional, and he _looks_ guilty as all hell. So instead of tearing into him, Virgil just folds his arms and glowers. “That’s your idea of being ‘better’, is it?”

To his credit, Gordon already looks miserable, and he winces and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his hoodie as Virgil scolds him. “I didn’t mean it,” he protests, but weakly, like he already knows it’s no excuse. “I just— _shit_ , Virgil. I mean, I really, _really_ didn’t mean it, it’s just—god. It’s just a reflex. Being a dick to John. I’ve never thought about it before. Even now, even with him like this. Even when I _swore_ I wasn’t gonna—like, I _told_ myself, I wasn’t gonna do that shit. I really meant to be better. But I just…” he trails off and shakes his head, dejected.

It’s another of his redeeming qualities that when Gordon’s sorry, he’s really, _really_ sorry. His remorse is evident and genuine, and in spite of himself, Virgil can’t find it in him to be too hard on his little brother. He relents and sighs. “You seem like you have an easier time being nice to him in the abstract than face to face.”

“I guess.” Gordon shrugs and huddles deeper in his (John’s) hoodie. His breath puffs lightly in the air, and the late-morning sunshine over the Boston cityscape doesn’t do much to warm the air. He shuffles his bare feet on the cold concrete of the balcony and shivers bodily as he glances guiltily towards the door at Virgil’s back. “Is he okay? Did he calm down and stuff?”

“The wind kinda went out of him.” That much is true. He’d left John still slouched over the kitchen table, alone with the promise that he’d think about Gordon’s idea. Virgil joins his brother at the railing and leans against it, less bothered by the cold and in need of some fresh air. Now that it’s been pointed out, more than before, John’s apartment seems absolutely stifling; claustrophobic somehow. He’s glad it doesn’t look like they’re going to be staying, and he tells Gordon so, “He’s thinking about your idea. About getting out of here. And I think I can talk him into it, if you can’t. I think that’d be good. You can probably call Dad back, we’ll pick up the keys to the place on our way out of town.”

Gordon brightens slightly at that. “Yeah? I think it’ll help. I mean—I wasn’t lying, with any of the stuff I said, about bad energy and the vibe in this place and all that bullshit, but…like, we wanna get outta here for other reasons. We wanna get some distance between John and anybody who knows who he is, because if anyone sees him like _this_? It’s not gonna take much for it to get back to Dad.”

This is actually a point of conflict that risks starting a fight between him and Gordon, but Virgil still thinks it needs to be clear where exactly he stands. So he takes a deep breath and says, “Are you sure we shouldn’t _let_ this get back to Dad? Are you sure _we_ shouldn’t be the ones bringing it to him? Because this is bad. This is like, really, _really_ bad, and it’s not—I mean, we’re _way_ beyond the territory of what we can cover for. This isn’t Scotty climbing in the back bedroom window after sneaking out to fool around with the captain of the cheer squad. This isn’t Alan accidentally breaking Grandma’s best pie plate and _you_ valiantly taking the rap for it. This _John_ with an _actual drug addiction_ that’s _actually killing him_. You said that. He needs help. _Real_ help, like _adult_ help. Not you and me pretending we know how to stage an intervention.”

“That’s not what we’re doing.”

Virgil’s answering growl is frustrated. “We don’t _know_ what we’re doing.”

Gordon leans over to peer past him, as though he’s worried he’ll see John in the doorway again. Reflexively, Virgil glances over his shoulder, but the balcony door is still firmly closed, and there’s no sign of their brother. Bouncing from one foot to the other in the cold, Gordon manages to come to a standstill for long enough to lower his voice as he says, “Look. I’m not saying we’re gonna let him try and handle this on his own. He can’t. He just can’t. So _obviously_ we need Dad. Or Scott. Or Grandma, or just _anybody_ —somebody who can get him some actual help. I’m with you on that one, V, I promise. But… _augh_ , Virg. We can’t force him. I think that’d be a huge mistake. I just—I’ve _been_ where he is. Kinda. And I know what he’s afraid of, because it’s _my fault_ he’s afraid of it. I’m at least part of the reason he feels as awful as he does right now.”

It’s starting to get chilly out on the balcony, and if Virgil’s feeling it, then Gordon must be starting to freeze. Virgil left John sitting in the kitchen, still hunched over the table and nursing the glass of orange juice he’d left unfinished, but Virgil doesn’t want to leave him alone for long. “What do you mean?”

Gordon heaves a huge sigh, a big puff of his breath clouding the air again and he looks almost nervous as he starts to pull at the drawstring of his hood, fiddling with it as he glances at his feet and shifts his weight again. He finds something intensely interesting to occupy his attention on the ground, deliberatey doesn’t look up as he asks, tentative, “Have you ever—no, I bet anything you haven’t—uh…maybe never mind…

“What?” It’s not like Gordon to hedge about anything, or to talk around any particular subject. Virgil has a suspicion about where the conversation might be going, and in that line, suspects that his little brother’s made some assumptions about Virgil’s own personal levels of angst that are insulting, as much as they’re incorrect. “Spit it out.”

Gordon sighs again and seems to steel himself a little bit, before he finally makes eye-contact and asks, “Have you ever been scared of our dad?”

The distant sounds of the city grow loud in the silence that falls between them. Virgil tries to come up with an emotional reaction to the question, but nothing he reaches for seems quite right—he flickers through an initial impulse to defensive anger, subsumed quickly by shock and disbelief, but ultimately he settles on blank confusion, certain that he must have misunderstood the question somehow. “Uh. _No_? What the hell are you talking about? It’s _Dad_. You’re not scared of Dad.” He pauses for a beat, remembering, “You called him ‘ _Lord Vader_ ‘ like, less than an hour ago. You’re not scared of him.”

Gordon shrugs. “Well, not _anymore_. But I _have_ been, Virg. And I’d bet anything that John is too.”

“But it’s _Dad_ ,” Virgil repeats again, dumbfounded and still at least partially convinced that he’s somehow failing to understand what Gordon’s actually saying, because what Gordon’s saying just doesn’t make any sense. “He’s our father and he loves us and he’d just…he’d _never_ —what is there to even be scared of?”

Paradoxically, Gordon seems almost amused by the question. “He threatened to throw me out of the family. You were _there_.”

Virgil’s stopped caring about the cold now, and he feels weirdly defensive again, almost belligerent as he shoots down his brother’s argument, with what he thinks is an obvious truth, “Well, you were being a shithead!”

“I was being _seventeen_ and a shithead, and I kinda think that the _seventeen_ part should’ve counted for a bit more than the _shithead_ part.”

Virgil’s a little bit on the backfoot, now, but he’s got his brother on a technicality, “—you’d just turned eighteen, when he finally got you in his office. Your stupid birthday party was the last straw.”

It’s not much of a technicality, and appropriately, Gordon scoffs. The cold doesn’t seem to be bothering him as much any more, as he warms up into their current argument, “Oh _yeah_ , my three whole days of adulthood were plenty of time to wise-up to the fact that my actions had consequences. I _totally_ deserved that kind of threat.”

“He wasn’t ever _really_ going to—“

“You don’t think so? Dad doesn’t fuck around with that kinda thing. And you know _way_ less about him than I do if you think he wouldn’t have followed through. And yeah, you know what? That scared the _shit_ outta me. That scared me _strai_ —ha. Well, not _straight_ , obviously, we won’t say straight. _That_ ship has sailed. But it scared me out of sleeping with whoever I thought would get me in the most trouble, just to see if I could get out of it again. It scared me out of wanting to hang around places where there were booze and drugs just _around_ , because I thought that kinda thing was exciting, even if I wasn’t really into it myself. It scared me back into being the kinda person I was when I had something to _work_ towards; like when I had the gold to go for. It sounds corny as hell, but he made me want to work at being a good son again.”

It’s another truth about Gordon that he’s got an easy, effortless fervour in him sometimes, that he can speak with earnestness and sincerity and conviction, and that he makes the things he says _sound_ true, even if Virgil knows better than to believe them. He doesn’t think any of this is _really_ true—but he’s becoming convinced that Gordon believes it, at least. “What’s this got to do with anything? John’s not like you.” _John’s smarter than that_ goes unsaid, and Virgil feels a little guilty for even thinking it.

Gordon rolls his eyes and now he actively pulls his arms in from the sleeves of his hoodie, bundling up inside it and shifting his weight to bounce lightly onto the balls of his feet, still bare against the frigid concrete. “Have we been watching the same complete and total emotional breakdown here, Virg? Haven’t you heard the shit he’s been saying? ‘Dad can’t find out’ and ‘please don’t tell Dad’ and ‘ _Dad will hate me_ ‘. Can’t you tell how scared he is? You’ve gotta be getting at least _some_ of that, big guy.”

Their older brother radiates angst and exhaustian, anxiety and _anger_ , more than anything else. But Virgil wouldn’t have assigned any of the reasons for that to their father, of all people, and he persists, disagreeing, “But Dad won’t _hate_ him. Dad couldn’t ever hate any of us.” He pauses, amends, “He’ll be _mad_ , sure. And frankly, he’s got every right to be. I mean—John’s in rough shape and I feel really bad for him, but he still fucked up. Like, he really, _really_ fucked up; I don’t think any of us have pulled anything this bad since _you_ set the bar for _catastrophically_ bad life choices.”

Gordon smiles thinly at that, and puts his arms back through his sleeves, to affect a mocking little salute in acknowledgment of the achievement. “Yeah, well. As far as bad behaviour goes, what I did was a _sprint_. I went on a _spree_. Johnny’s got a goddamn marathon going. He’s been fucking up way worse, for way longer, and he _knows that_. He’s got _plenty_ to be scared of, so let him be scared. Some of it’s rational, some of it’s not, but it doesn’t mean he feels it any less. We’ve gotta let him work through it.”

Virgil puts a pin in that one, for now, and temporarily concedes the point. “Yeah, okay. I suppose we’ll just take it one day at a time. By the end of this week, though—“

Suddenly the end of the week seems ages away. Spring break ends on the thirty-first of March, in five days. Virgil needs to get back to school, and so does Gordon. He doesn’t know what John will do, if John’s even going to be capable of resuming his life as normal. This isn’t even remotely within the bounds of what Virgil had expected this week would be. He feels as though they’re flying blind now, and while that might suit Gordon’s style of frenetic improvisation, Virgil vastly prefers to have a plan.

But for once, Gordon seems to have one. He’s staunch and determined as he says, “By the end of this week, between the two of us, hopefully we can convince him he needs to get help. However he gets it—that’s something else, I guess. Whether we go to Dad, or Scott, or find some other way, we’re _gonna_ get him help. Hell, _I’ll_ stay if I have to, if that’s what it takes. I’ll make up some bullshit, I’ll transfer out here. We’ll work something out.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. One problem at a time, right? Our current problem probably still has his scrawny butt parked at the kitchen table, mulling over whether or not he wants to go to Martha’s Vineyard for the rest of the week, while we freeze our asses on the balcony and talk about him behind his back. We should get inside, figure out what happens next.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Gordon’s already shouldering past him, reaching for the door handle back into the relative warmth of the apartment. Virgil lets him go and lingers for a few moments longer on the balcony, taking in a few more deep breaths of crisp, early spring air, and sunlight.

When he ducks back inside, across the living room and through the open archway into the kitchen, he can see Gordon’s pulled up a chair at the kitchen table, and that he’s rested his arms atop it and leaned over, mirroring John. It’s not until he gets closer that Virgil realizes; left alone and without anything else to do—or any reason to do anything else—John’s buried his face in his arms again, and fallen asleep.

“Jeez,” he mutters, approaching and leaning over to peer at their older brother, though John’s face is hidden in the crook of his arm. “So much for making a plan.”

“Shh. He can’t help it.” The same as Virgil had, though with less hesitance, Gordon puts a hand on John’s shoulder, and the pair of them are a study in contrasts. They’re not similar and never have been. John’s fair and pale after a long winter on the east coast, Gordon’s got the perpetual tan of his perpetual west coast summer. The way the light falls through the kitchen doorway, more of it falls on Gordon than on John, and the shadows in the room seem to cling to their brother, and wash the colour out of him. Gordon’s quiet for a few more moments before he chuckles softly to himself. “I think you’re right. It’s easier to care about him when I don’t actually have to _talk_ to him.” Virgil sees his fingers tighten slightly as he squeezes John’s shoulder. “It’s a shame about the circumstances, but I think I like him better when he’s being pathetic than when he’s being all high and mighty and has all his shit together. John’s _never_ pathetic. It’s refreshing.”

Before Virgil can even attempt to soften the choice of the word “pathetic”, there’s a shift of John’s shoulders as he stirs slightly and mumbles, “…’m'not _pathetic_.”

Gordon grins sardonically at that. “Johnny—and I mean this with every scrap of affection that I _haven’t_ demonstrated over the past three years—I gotta tell you, you’re _pretty fucking pathetic_ right now. And honestly? That’s okay.”

John groans and pushes himself up of the tabletop, rubbing at his eyes again. But instead of rallying any particular defense against Gordon’s comment—instead of another waspish argument that escalates too quickly into shouting and swearing and hating each other—John just sighs and nods his agreement with Gordon’s assessment. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Yeah, _really_ , I think.”

John just shrugs and sounds defeated as he concedes the point, “Okay.”

Gordon pats his shoulder again, in such a way that manages to stop just shy of patronizing. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he offers, conciliatory and apologetic. “You feel like shit, and I know that, and I was being an ass and it was really mean.”

John shakes his head, doesn’t seem to consider the apology to have much value, despite the fact that an apology from Gordon for _anything_ is a vanishingly rare commodity. “You’re _always_ an ass; I’m supposed to be used to it. I’m…I guess I’m sorry that I just can’t handle it, right now.”

Gordon winces. “Well, you shouldn’t have to. I’ll try harder, John. I really am sorry.”

This is uncharted territory, and unaccustomed as he must be to anything like kindness from Gordon, John doesn’t really seem to know how he’s supposed to handle it. “Okay,” he says eventually, for lack of anything else.

“Okay!” Gordon agrees, brightening a bit and straightening up in his chair. “So, you wanna get out of here?”

John shrugs. “Where would we even go?”

“I talked to Dad a bit. He was calling around looking to see if there was a pool anywhere we could rent out, and he happened to call the Dean of Admissions, was gonna cash in a favour. The guy has a little cabin out on the coast, probably like a three, four hour drive out. He offered to let us use it for the rest of the week, seeing as he can’t get out there himself.”

If Virgil hadn’t been watching for it—and after their conversation on the balcony, he hadn’t been able to help himself—he’d have missed it. The barest, briefest flicker of fear across his big brother’s features, at the mention of their father. It’s gone almost before it’s recognizable, and once it’s passed, John just looks tired and blank, but Virgil feels guilt twisting up inside him again. He clears his throat and speaks up, “It’d be way out of the city. Nice dark skies, some breathing room. Privacy. Quiet. You’d like that, right?”

“I…yes. Yeah. I think so.” But John pauses and looks doubtful, anxious, as he protests, “But…the Dean of Admissions?” He shudders. “Dad knows him. Like, they’re _friends_ , practically, and any time I run into him, he asks how things _are_ and I can’t…I just—I mean, I _can’t_ —like _this_ …

Gordon cuts in quickly, “You don’t need to see him at all. I’ll handle it. You just get a bag packed, me and Virgil still have all our stuff together from our trip out. We’ll hit a gas station on the way out of town, get some snacks for the drive, and just spend the rest of the week on the coast. It’ll be fine. It’ll be good for you, John. I think it’ll help.”

John nods, slow and considerate, and in spite of everything, Virgil can’t help but have a funny, warm feeling of affection for his two brothers, actually treating each other decently for the first time in ages. He speaks up again, starts to take charge, now that there’s a plan beginning to coalesce into being. “Yeah, let’s do it. C’mon, J, I can help you pack, if you want. Gordon, if you wanna grab the keys, they’re in my jacket pocket, you can call Dad back and go meet up with this guy. I’ll see if we can—“

“Wait, though,” John interrupts, even as Gordon stands up from the table. One of John’s hands has cinched around his opposite wrist, and the fingers of this are clenched tight. He stares down at his hands for a few moments, and doesn’t look up as he says, haltingly, “Gordon, I—before you go, I need…i-if you’re going out anyway, then I need you to…to do something for me. Please.”

Gordon’s agreement is immediate and earnest, “Sure, John, of course. Anything. What’s up?”

John pushes himself up from the table and drifts to the kitchen door, hangs in the doorway for a moment. Virgil’s struck once again by how sad and empty and guilty he looks, as he waves a hand, beckons vaguely. “Come with me,” he says. “I need you to do this, because I know I can’t.”


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

There’s nothing John loves more than a good backup plan. Apparently in the case of his drug addiction, his backup plan consists of fully another _hundred_ doses of Adderall, divided into four neat little caches, and cleverly hidden around his apartment. Considering it doesn’t look like anyone else has even been here in the past three years, this seems unnecessarily paranoid.

But then, Virgil’s not the one with the drug addiction, so it’s not like he’d know.

In spite of admitting to the fact that he _has_ secret stashes of drugs, John still seems cagey and ashamed about the actual reality of their existence. After his rather dramatic exit from the kitchen, hadn’t been capable of more than crossing the living room to his bookcase, pulling his hardbound copy of “Brave New World” off the shelf, and handing it wordlessly to Gordon.

Gordon hadn’t caught on until he’d flipped the cover open, and found the hollowed out space, where the words had been ruthlessly excised from between the margins, and the space where they’d been filled with a little rectangular plastic bag and two dozen assorted doses of Adderall inside, a little rainbow of tablets and capsules. At that point the problem had been obvious.

And Gordon had pinched at the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, like he’d suddenly found it necessary to count his way up to ten in order to keep calm. “How many more?” was all he’d asked, after an interminably long silence, the sort that had felt far longer than just ten seconds.

“Three,” had been John’s only answer.

Gordon’s eventual answering sigh had been more resigned than exasperated. “Really?”

“Yeah. Yes. I’m sorry.” John’s voice had been faint and tired and he’d been plainly ashamed of himself. “I didn’t—I wasn’t planning on telling you. I thought this might all blow over, if I could just stick it out ‘til you left. But…I guess you’re not going anywhere. And I want to try. I’m trying. But I can’t—I don’t think I can beat the cravings, if these aren’t gone. I _know_ I can’t. So…so, please, if you’d just…”

The little bag had vanished into the pocket of Gordon’s hoodie. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. We’ve gotcha, John.”

So now John sits cross-legged in the middle of the unmade bed, looking blank and miserable and lost within himself as Virgil methodically takes apart his bedroom. In the interests of killing two birds with one stone, he’s been pulling clothes out of the dresser and the closet, putting together a week’s worth of clothing to stuff into a backpack on his brother’s behalf. This is proving more of a challenge than anticipated, even discounting the concurrent scavenger hunt for hidden amphetamines.

Contrary to the aesthetic of every other college student Virgil’s ever met, John doesn’t dress as though he’s just grabbed whatever was within reach on a blind dash through a thrift store. Virgil, living on his own in Colorado, has accidentally stumbled into a love affair with Carhartt and Levis, flannel and denim, that looks like it might just last him for the rest of his life. Even so, if the occasion demands it, he’ll still sometimes rock up to his philosophy class in sweatpants and a disintegrating t-shirt, accessorized with a soy latte and a hangover, because some days it just isn’t worth the effort.

John apparently hasn’t permitted himself that luxury. His closet is all neatly pressed oxford shirts and cardigans, jackets and blazers, slacks and four hundred dollar pairs of jeans. The sort of elite, Ivy League sort of style that seems like it must be a necessary facade. None of it looks comfortable or cozy or like it would be appropriate to the sort of gentle treatment his brother deserves. John’s wardrobe consists of clothes that look like they take _effort_ to wear, and none of it is _right_.

Virgil’s found a handful of t-shirts and a spare hoodie, a twin to the one that Gordon’s stolen, heather gray and fleecy. He’ll need to make sure John gets that back. He’s found two pairs of sweatpants, plus the third pair that John’s already wearing. John’s also found his knit woolen sweater and pulled it back on. Virgil recognizes this—remembers Grandma knitting it and sizing it against his chest, two years ago now—and given that it’s the closest thing to a comfort object in the entire place, he’s not about to take _that_ off his brother in the name of filling a backpack. He grabs a couple pairs of jeans, just to make up some space.

Across the hall, he hears the scrape of porcelain on porcelain as Gordon takes the cover off the toilet tank, the other half of the search still in progress. He finishes with the bottom drawer of John’s dresser, finds nothing but a few pairs of socks to add his brother’s bag, and then straightens up with a sigh. He hasn’t had a lot of luck with warm, comfortable clothes, but he’s had even less luck with hidden stashes of drugs, and it’s beginning to get frustrating.

He still doesn’t mean to sound as exasperated as he does, when he asks, “Do you think I could get a hint, maybe? A quandrant of the room to start in? Warmer, colder?”

“Huh?”

Virgil manages not to sigh. Across the hall, he hears the flush of the toilet through the open bathroom door, and wonders if John makes the connection; if he realizes that Gordon’s probably just flushed at least half John’s stash down the drain. In his current state, almost certainly not.“ _Drugs_ , John.”

“Oh.”

“If you can’t tell me straight, then…I mean, I guess that’s…that’s fine, I guess. That’s just whatever. It’s fine. But at least could you point me in a direction? Maybe?”

To answer the question, John just picks himself up off the mattress, steps away from the bed and drops into the chair in the corner of the room. He doesn’t say anything further, but Virgil takes the hint. He gets down on his knees to peer under the bedframe, and thinks about his brother.

What bothers Virgil most is the _blankness_ ; the vague air of confusion that’s descended upon John, blurred his edges and made him seem indistinct. It’s such a bizarre and jarring change in his quicksilver-brilliant, wickedly clever big brother, always the smartest of the five of them and always proud of the fact.

That’s just _gone_ now, like it’s been painted over. When he was younger (much younger), Virgil remembers being shown his grandfather’s coin collection. Pennies had been out of circulation for decades at that point, but he remembers the way the little one cent pieces had stood out amongst all the rest, spots of old, tarnished darkness amongst all the bright silver. There weren’t many, compared to the variety of nickels and dimes and quarters, but Virgil’s favourite had been a brilliant copper-coloured penny, from the year 2030, a keepsake from the last series minted. It had only been eight years old then, but in near mint condition, and still so bright and beautiful and _perfect_ in its little plastic sheath. It was practically impossible for a six-year-old not to be drawn to it.

If Virgil had been reminded of John then, it had been in an superficial, childish way, an easy association of like colours. He’d been too young to make any kind of meaningful connection, sixteen years ago, and he doesn’t know why his thoughts fly back to that moment, here and now.

Maybe it’s just the whole idea of tarnish. Of the shine going off of something, of how the difference in time and use and environment could change something so perfect and bright and brilliant. Corrosion. The dullness he sees in his brother now puts him in mind of all those dark spots in his grandfather’s book, all those old, ugly pieces of weathered copper and tarnished bronze, some of them well over a century old. It had been impossible to believe that any of them could have ever compared with what they must have been when newly minted.

Virgil thinks back to Friday night again, and the change his brother’s undergone since then—it hasn’t even been forty-eight hours, and John’s like an entirely different person. Virgil strays too near to the notion that John might _never_ go back to the way that he was, and recoils from the idea in sudden horror. He has to shunt the whole line of thought aside, and refuse to think about it any further. He reverts his attention to the task at hand and peers intently beneath the bed.

But the underside of this is bizarrely, depressingly empty—not even a lost sock or an errant dustbunny, just carpet and the bottom of the boxspring, set atop the bedframe. Virgil feels along the edge of the bed rails, but still doesn’t find anything, and can’t see anything on the opposite side. He peeks behind the headboard and finds it similarly bare, and then methodically goes about the business of stripping the bed linens, makes the mental note to do a load of laundry.

He hefts the queen-sized mattress up with a slight grunt of effort, but isn’t rewarded by the discovery of anything between the mattress and the boxspring. As he lowers it back down, however, he happens to notice a slit, running along the edge of the pillowtop mattress. The flutter of excited triumph he feels is immediately quelled as he remembers what he’s looking for—and what he finds, slipping his fingers into the little pocket and pulling out a small, rectangular plastic bag.

John’s seen all of this, obviously. But he doesn’t react, and Virgil suddenly feels awkward, self-conscious about what reaction belongs here. Triumph isn’t right, obviously. This wasn’t really a scavenger hunt, he hasn’t _outwitted_ his brother—and he admits to himself that he probably wouldn’t have, if John hadn’t shifted himself off the mattress and given him a tacit clue.

Virgil turns and displays the little plastic bag in the palm of his hand, for lack of anything to say. There are no words that seem like they’d be right, no statement that needs to accompany the obvious. Virgil doesn’t even entirely know what he’s supposed to _do_ next, other than call for Gordon, the family’s resident expert in all things illegal and illicit.

Gordon, luckily, seems to have a sixth sense for exactly when he’s needed, because he makes his entrance before Virgil has to figure out what to say, and hasn’t the least compunction about crossing the room, and plucking the little bag of pills from Virgil’s open palm. “Three down,” he declares, almost cheerfully, “one to go. I gotta hand it to you, John, you’re _scary_ good at hiding shit. A hollowed out book. Inside the bathroom light fixture. Where was this one, Virg?”

Listless and defeated in the chair in the corner of the room, John doesn’t react to the compliment, and Virgil’s gaze doesn’t leave him as he answers, “Slit in the mattress. I needed a hint, though.”

Gordon whistles, low and appreciative. “Damn, Johnny.”

Maybe this is Gordon’s attempt at kindness, but it doesn’t seem to be making much of an impact. If anything, by his glassy-eyed silence and his body-language, Virgil’s pretty sure that addressing this whole situation explicitly is making their brother draw further inward, shrinking away from reality. Virgil gets the distinct impression that John would rather be anywhere but here.

“I packed you a bag,” Virgil volunteers, picking up that line of thought and running with it. He nudges the backpack he’d pulled down from the closet with his foot, though it’s not quite as full as it could be. “Clothes for the next few days, nothing too fancy, just whatever looked comfortable. So that’s done. Gordon can…uh, can finish up what you wanted him to do. And you can grab your toothbrush, and we can—”

This exchange catches John’s attention and he suddenly stirs himself out of stillness, animates slightly as he blinks at the backpack, stares at it. “That bag? You…packed that bag. That’s the blue bag. That’s from the…was it in the closet?”

“Yeah? It was the only one I saw.”

Virgil picks the backpack up and holds it out, assuming that his brother wants to see what’s been packed on his behalf. John takes it, fumbles for a moment with the unexpected weight of it, before tugging the zipper open and unceremoniously upending the contents on the floor. Initially Virgil’s too startled to be offended, and any umbrage he might’ve taken fades before it can even begin to rise, as John’s hands vanish inside the bag, and there’s the rustle of the nylon lining beneath his fingers.

It takes him a minute, and maybe Gordon catches on before Virgil does, because Virgil doesn’t expect what happens next. But when John withdraws his hand from inside the backpack, he’s holding a small, rectangular plastic bag, complete with a rainbow of twenty-five innocuous little pills.

And the entire room goes still. And there’s a moment like the edge of a knife, where it seems like the situation could tip one way or another. John’s got a handful of pills in the palm of a trembling hand, and his fingertips twitch, just slightly, as though his impulse is to close his hand around them.

But he doesn’t. It’s a long moment, full of stillness and uncertainty, but then John draws a shaky deep breath and time unfreezes. And he holds his hand out, deliberately looking away as he does.

Virgil’s closer, but Gordon’s quicker on the draw, and moves to snatch up the little bag, stashing it immediately in the front pocket of his borrowed hoodie. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Four,” John says. His voice is still tired, but just for a moment there’s a note of determination in it, just a hint of steel, like he recognizes what he’s overcome.

“Four,” Gordon agrees, and if Virgil’s not mistaken, there might just be the very slightest touch of warmth, what might even be something like pride in his voice. And then, vehemently, “Now let’s get the fuck outta here.”

And Virgil starts to gather up the clothes that’ve been dumped all over the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The following represents a conversation that takes place prior to our actual story. This will be made clear in the next chapter, but that's not written yet. So for now, consider it something like a flashback. ~~also someday I might add actual formatting to make it look like an actual texted conversation, but for now it's just barebones.~~ anyway! thanks for reading  <3)

Scott  
  
Virgil  
hey  
  
Scott  
hey, virg! How's it going?  
  
Virgil  
Good. With you?  
  
Scott  
Oh you know. Still here.  
  
Virgil  
how are the planes?  
  
Scott  
the planes are fine.  
  
Virgil  
that's good.  
  
Scott  
how's the rockies?  
  
Virgil  
Rocky. I threw myself down one of them on a snowboard over winter break and it was the stupidest thing i've done this year.  
  
Scott  
hahaha, dumbass. aw man, wish I could've come. I would've paid money to see that.  
  
Virgil  
the bear fell off of the mountain  
  
Scott  
hahahha. well at least you're still in one piece. School okay?  
  
Virgil  
yeah, same old same old. couple more days until spring break, actually  
  
Scott  
oh shit, nice. gonna do anything?  
  
Virgil  
yeah, I'm flying out to Boston to hang out with John for the week.   
  
Scott  
oh cool. that'll be good for him. man, there's tons of stuff for you guys to do. If you can talk John into it, there's a few decent bars I'd recommend. when does fenway open? did you have anything in mind?  
  
Virgil  
well.  
  
Scott  
...?  
  
Virgil  
so, Gordon's coming too  
  
Scott  
oh Jesus.  
  
Virgil  
what?  
  
Scott  
What do you mean "what?" they hate each other.  
  
Virgil  
they don't hate each other.  
  
Scott  
As good as. Gordon thinks John's a self-righteous prick and John thinks Gordon's a reckless idiot. They don't talk and if they do talk they fight.  
  
Virgil  
yeah. well, i thought it might be time to put a stop to that.  
  
Scott  
...how, by locking the two of them in john's apartment for a week? When they get done we'll just have one less brother. it'll cut down on the drama, sure, but I think grandma might be upset.  
  
Virgil  
They're not that bad.  
  
Scott  
I dunno man, I was home for Christmas.  
  
Virgil  
...okay they're pretty bad.   
  
Scott  
yeah, because christmas was PRETTY BAD, virgil.  
  
Virgil  
I KNOW. But I'm sick of it, is what i'm saying. and I would like for this Thanksgiving not to be another Christmas, where the pair of them snipe at each other the whole time and then Gordon drinks half a bottle of rum just to be an idiot on purpose, and John gets fed up and leaves in the middle of the night, before he's even been home for a full twenty-four hours, and misses christmas entirely. that was really shitty and I don't want it to happen again.  
  
Scott  
Right. So what, does your logic dictate that John can't leave if he's already home? Because he'll just go out a window. Gordon has that effect on people in enclosed spaces, sometimes.  
  
Virgil  
Gordon's not that bad if you don't act like you EXPECT him to be a jackass. AND he says he's willing to at least try to have a conversation, if I can get John to agree to treat him like an adult. I swear they just need to make the effort to talk to each other and then we can work this out.  
  
Scott  
Sure, yeah. You bought that? Because knowing Gordon he's only tagged along for shits and giggles, and he's going to use this as an opportunity to see if he can give John an anyeurysm just for funsies.  
  
Virgil  
ugh, scott.  
  
Virgil  
please please please give our little brother more credit than that. don't act like that's what you expect from him because when you say shit like that it literally just makes him worse. seriously.  
  
Scott  
does John even know you're bringing him?  
  
Virgil  
umm  
  
Scott  
Oh, great.  
  
Virgil  
I'll tell him once we've both made it to boston, otherwise he'll just shut the whole thing down.  
  
Scott  
yeaaaaaaah. because there's nothing john loves more than a good surprise. are you at least getting a hotel room? he's in a one bedroom walkup, there isn't room for all three of you. There's especially not room if two out of three of you want to throttle each other.  
  
Virgil  
we'll figure it out. you're not even accounting for the possibility that maybe I can actually do this.  
  
Scott  
I'm not saying it can't be done, I'm saying I don't think YOU can do it. And I think it's a waste of time to try.  
  
Virgil  
yeah. okay. thanks. good talk.  
  
Scott  
Don't be like that. I'm just trying to help. Back in my day, spring break was for boozy, forgettable hook-ups and getting the fuck outta Boston. not workshopping rocky brotherly relationships. flip a coin, pick one of them, and go get drunk.   
  
Scott  
no wait, how old is gordon? still only 20, right?  
  
Scott  
so actually, I guess it's not really one or the other. Ditch gordon. One of the bars I mentioned is called Houlihan's, if there's still a waitress there named Carmen, ask if she remembers me. go and get John absolutely plastered. He could probably use it. that's your step one. get jaybird to loosen up and talk about it one on one.  
  
Virgil  
I'm not going to do that.  
  
Scott  
it's a better plan then your dumb idea.  
  
Virgil  
your support in this difficult endeavour has meant the world. I just want you to know that.  
  
Scott  
I am literally on the other side of the planet, what do you want? The support I'm providing at the moment is of the tactical variety, and I'm telling you, if you try and sit the pair of them down to work out their issues, you're going to have a bad time.   
  
Scott  
you are not going to have a fun spring break, you are going to have a shitty spring break. you're going to ruin a whole week for three people. there is no version of this spring break where our brothers don't have a big ugly screaming fight and end up hating each other worse than before.  
  
Virgil  
well, I think there is.  
  
Scott  
of course you do. god you're stubborn.  
  
Virgil  
I'm persistent.  
  
Scott  
You're annoying and you're wrong.  
  
Virgil  
yeah thanks for the vote of confidence.  
  
Scott  
You wanted my opinion, brother, not my fault you don't like it. Let it lie for now. Wait 'til I get back. We'll tag team them this summer. I'll get Gordie in a headlock, you can sit on J.  
  
Virgil  
I don't want to wait til summer if i can solve this problem NOW. This feels like the right time to try. I don't knwo why. it's just a gut impulse and even if it all blows up, at least it would get them thinking about it.  
  
Scott  
well, it's your spring break. do what you want. I don't know why you're getting me involved if you're not gonna listen to me.  
  
Virgil  
i thought you might be more encouraging. I thought you might at least think it wasn't a stupid idea. Their our brothers and they should treat each other better.  
  
Scott  
great idea. go virgil. whoo.  
  
Virgil  
okay, well, you're obviously in A Mood, so I guess we'll talk later. thanks for the input, scotty.  
  
Scott  
no wait.  
  
Scott  
virg?  
  
Scott  
okay, sorry. I was being an ass.  
  
Virgil  
yeah KIND OF.  
  
Scott  
maybe there's a chance it could happen. Is that what you wanted to hear?  
  
Virgil  
I think there's better than just a chance.  
  
Scott  
I think they've been like this for over TWO YEARS. I think this isn't the sort of shit you wanna lay odds on, virg.  
  
Virgil  
...try me.  
  
Scott  
... what, for real?  
  
Virgil  
yeah. put your money where your mouth is if you really don't think I have a shot with them.  
  
Scott  
Dude, you're already gonna torch your spring break. I'm not going to take money off you because you're making a stupid but well-intentioned mistake.  
  
Virgil  
$200 says I can get them to sort their shit out.  
  
Scott  
hahaha, chump change.  
  
Virgil  
we're billionaires. it's the principle of the thing. Dad always says money's just a way of keeping score anyway.  
  
Scott  
casually maniacal capitalism sure looks good on ol dad.  
  
Virgil  
$300?  
  
Scott  
chuuuuump chaaaaaaange.  
  
Virgil  
well, what then? it's not like YOU have anything I want.  
  
Scott  
mmmmm.  
  
Virgil  
mmm?  
  
Scott  
mmmmmaaaybe. maybe not.  
  
Virgil  
what?  
  
Scott  
Well. It's not technically mine yet.  
  
Virgil  
what isn't?  
  
Scott  
I'm only even mentioning it because there's no way in hell you're gonna get Johnny and Gordon to make nice. You are gonna turn up on John's doorstep with our screwball little brother in tow, and get the door slammed in your face. Or, if you DO get over the threshold, they'll immediately have a big stupid fight and someone will hit someone else (if you wanna take that bet, my money is on john finally cold clocking gordon) and the whole week will go up in flames.  
  
Virgil  
mentioning what? You haven't mentioned anything.  
  
Scott  
You know the Camaro?  
  
Virgil  
the camaro? dad's camaro? the bottle green 1966 z28 camaro currently parked under a tarp in the barn back home in kansas with its engine block up on a pair of sawhorses and the rear axle still halfway disassembled from the last time dad was home? that camaro?   
  
Virgil  
are you actually asking me if I know that camaro.  
  
Scott  
Well. I thought it was a 68, so maybe not?  
  
Virgil  
fuck you.  
  
Scott  
Hahahahaha.  
  
Scott  
Dad says he doesn't have any time to work on it, and if I want it, I can have first dibs on it when I get back.  
  
Virgil  
FUCK YOU.  
  
Scott  
Hahahahaha. thought i didn't have anything you want?  
  
Virgil  
you DON'T. i'm calling Dad right now, what the hell is this. I love that car. dad KNOWS I love that car. why are you even part of the conversation.  
  
Scott  
turns out I am also reasonably fond of that car.  
  
Virgil  
YOU THOUGHT IT WAS A 68.  
  
Scott  
yeah, and Carmen's name might actually have been Karen, but let's not quibble. You want it?  
  
Virgil  
how is that even a question.  
  
Scott  
If you can get Gordon and John to bury the hatchet, then I will give the camaro a hard pass. all yours. and $300, just to keep score.  
  
Virgil  
Yeah. deal. yes. you're on.  
  
Scott  
It's not gonna happen, though.  
  
Virgil  
well it's actually no longer even about Johnny and Gordo. that is now the secondary objective. because now it's about saving my baby from the clutches of someone who is incapable of even remotely appreciating her. now it's actually a rescue mission.  
  
Scott  
hahaha, ouch. well. I guess if that's what it takes.  
  
Virgil  
I am very excited to take your car.  
  
Scott  
yeah, uh huh. when Gordon and John actually attempt to kill each other because you thought it was a good idea to have an informal cage match, please try to remember to pull Gordon off before he can do any permanent damage.  
  
Virgil  
I'm gonna put in a new fuel injector. i'm going to redo the whole interior. maybe if you're very very nice to me I'll let you help bleed the brake lines.  
  
Scott  
hahaha, yeah yeah. god, i better sleep though. Good luck, V. and I really do mean that. If you can get them past all this stupid bullshit, I think it'd be a miracle, but I'd still be glad it happened. Lemme know how it goes.  
  
Virgil  
Sure thing. Night Scott. have nice dreams about my car.  
  



	6. Chapter 6

He reads back over the conversation in the parking lot of a gas station, on their way out of the city. It turns out Scott was right about that part, anyway. Spring break is for getting the fuck out of Boston.

There's an extra key on his key ring, belonging to the front door of the little cottage they'll be borrowing, a four hour drive away. The direction and distance to their destination glow softly on the dashboard's heads up display. There are three backpacks stuffed in the trunk of the rental car. John's got the back seat to himself because Gordon called shotgun, but the pair of them are currently out of the car and inside the gas station, picking out snacks for the drive. Virgil's requested a mocha cappucino which he fully expects to be terrible, but doesn't especially care so long as it's caffeinated. As he waits, he finds himself fixated on the screen of his phone, and the last conversation he'd had with his eldest brother, five days ago now.

It's another one of those things that seems long ago and far away. Reading back over the exchange, Virgil feels uncomfortably as though this slightly younger version of himself was appallingly naive and should've somehow known what he was about to walk into. He couldn't have, of course, and it's not the first time he's had to tell himself so. But bits and pieces of information trigger and twinge in his memory, and hindsight is twenty-twenty.

This past Christmas gains a particularly sharp context, as Virgil retroactively recognizes the parallels between the way John had behaved then---tired and waspish and uncharacteristically angry---and the way he's been in the early stages of withdrawal. His abrupt departure had probably had less to do with Gordon's presence and more to do with his own ability to cope, in the growing distance from his last hit. Thinking back over the conversations he's had with John over the past couple years, he wonders how often his brother was high during their course. It makes him feel knotted up and guilty inside, for not being able to tell.

He's still holding his phone when it chimes and vibrates, and he starts as the last few lines of the conversation he's been staring at suddenly jump upward on the bright little screen.

Scott  
  
Scott  
afternoon, virg.  
  


And he feels as though he's been caught at something, caught in the act of wanting to rat John out, which summons up a whole _other_ sort of guilt. He's not intimately familiar with his big brother's schedule, but he's usually the one to reach out to Scott, not the other way around. Afternoon in Boston means it's starting to be late at night for Scott, far away and on the other side of the world. He imagines his big brother, lying awake instead of sleeping, and staring at the same brightly glowing screen. He wonders if he's lonely, or bored, or if he needs someone to talk to. Virgil ignores texts from Gordon almost religiously, because Gordon will text him at five in the morning to ask if Virgil ever wonders if dogs think in English.

But he can't do the same to Scott.

Scott  
  
Virgil  
hey.  
Scott  
hey yourself.  
Scott  
So. how's it going.  


The question is so blunt it doesn't even merit a question mark, and with their last conversation fresh in his mind, Virgil knows exactly what Scott's asking. He can just imagine the smug grin lurking on his brother's face as he asks it, the way he must be expecting the usual horror stories about Gordon and John, taking vicious chunks out of each other as a matter of course, while Virgil's efforts to reconcile their differences go up in flames.

He shouldn't have answered so quickly. He should've thought ahead to anticipate that first obvious question. Now Scott knows he's sitting somewhere, phone in hand, perfectly able to formulate a reply. Every second that ticks by on Scott's end is going to make him think that the weekend thus far has been a disaster, and that John and Gordon still hate each other, and that Virgil's completely and utterly failed in his objective.

Scott  
  
Virgil  
it's going.  
Scott  
that bad, huh?  


Worse. A whole other level of worse, for reasons Virgil can't talk about, though at the thought of his big brother on the far side of the world, alone and looking for a distraction and with nothing better to do but listen---there's nothing Virgil wants more than to tell Scott what's happened. How wrong he'd been, how much he'd missed, how desperately young he feels, dealing with a problem like this. How badly he wants to ask his big brother for help.

Instead he says,

Scott  
  
Virgil  
it's a work in progress. they're both still here.  


He regrets this statement immediately, given the very real possibility that John might _not_ have been. He hasn't pressed Gordon for details, because he doesn't especially want them, but he also knows Gordon well enough to know when he's really worried. Friday night, with a defibrillator parked on their brother's coffee table and his heart trying to hammer its way out of his chest, Gordon had been genuinely afraid that the worst could have happened to John. Virgil still hasn't entirely processed that reality.

Scott  
  
Scott  
Hahaha, well, that's already better than I expected. good for you.  
Virgil  
I guess.  


Shouldn't have said that either.

Scott  
  
Scott  
you guess?  


Virgil swallows and glances up through the window, to see if John and Gordon are checking out yet. As far as he can tell they're still caught up by the coffee machines, and the line at the counter means he probably has a few more minutes. It's a necessary fact of spring break that he and his brothers are all at fairly close quarters. It's hard to say for sure if he'll get another chance to talk to Scott privately. So this seems like an opportunity that needs to be seized.

Scott  
  
Virgil  
yeah, I dunno. umm. if I ask you a question, can you try not to read too much into it?  
Scott  
uh.  
Scott  
I mean I can try. yeah, sure. okay. shoot.  
Virgil  
Do you talk to John much?  


Even just this feels utterly and absolutely transparent, as though Scott's next question will immediately be "Why, is he on drugs?"

Scott  
  
Scott  
Here and there. He's like STUPID busy though. and our schedules aren't super compatible. do you know his GPA?  


It's impossible not to know John's GPA, considering their father mentions it every chance he gets. For once, Virgil knows something Scott doesn't, concerning John and his hallowed 3.9.

Scott  
  
Virgil  
Yeah.  
Scott  
He must bust his ass maintaining that standard. burning out, you think?  


Burning up, more like it. It's the perfect answer, but it's not one he can give. It gets too close to the actual problem.

Scott  
  
Virgil  
I dunno.  
Scott  
Does he seem lonely?  


Loneliess is probably part of it. Isolation. The fact that there's been no one watching close enough to catch him, no one who knows him well enough to have perceived the change.

Scott  
  
Virgil  
not sure if that's it. I'm not sure. just a weird feeling about him. something seems off, I guess. don't hold me to it. I don't know for sure.  


Stacking up conditions and qualifiers only seems as though it's going to intensify Scott's suspicions, and predictably, it does.

Scott  
  
Scott  
I mean, you're the guy who knows this shit. if you're having a bad vibe about him, I'd trust it. has he said anything?  
Virgil  
no no, nothing like that. honestly, I don't know for sure. don't read into it.  


This is just lying, plain and simple, and not even lying by ommission. A grey lie, rather than white. It's constructing a whole separate version of the current reality, where he and Gordon (mostly Gordon) haven't caught their brother with a drug habit, and instead Virgil has been perceptive enough to notice signs and symptoms, and has the chance to ask his eldest brother for his advice and insight.

Scott  
  
Scott  
I haven't noticed anything wrong when we've talked, but I probably haven't heard from him in at least a month. probably longer. do you want me to touch base?  


That's the last thing in the world Virgil wants, given the delicacy of the current situation, and the fact that he's given Scott tacit permission to get involved has been the biggest mistake he's made in the last five minutes, though not the biggest mistake he's made today.

Scott  
  
Virgil  
no, it's okay. I'll keep an eye on it for now. you know how he can get touchy sometimes.  
Scott  
I really don't mind, it's no problem. It would just be to say hi and check in. we should talk more anyway. spring break is a good excuse. i can call Gordon too.  


Virgil curses softly to himself and slumps back in the driver's seat with a groan. This isn't the time for this conversation. The other two will be back any minute. He doesn't feel like he can hold up beneath Scott's needling, nor does he want Gordon or John to catch him in the act of texting their eldest brother. John will be spooked by the possibility of anyone finding out his secret, Gordon will bristle and blister on John's behalf, and Virgil will catch hell from both of them.

Which, even now, will make a novel change from the pair of them yelling at each other, but sheer novelty is insufficient motivation to risk a confrontation with his brothers, or to continue running the risk of just spilling his guts to Scott. So he tactfully disengages.

Scott  
  
Virgil  
maybe later. I'll let you know. we're heading out of town actually, so I've gotta drive for a few hours. I'll talk to you later.  
Scott  
???  
Scott  
Where are you going?  
Virgil  
just a place we rented on the beach. getting out of the city and stuff. a little more room to breathe and whatever.  
Scott  
oh okay. well, have fun. drive safe. don't do anything I wouldn't do.  
Virgil  
sure thing. thanks. talk to you later, scotty.  
Scott  
hey, but wait though.  
Scott  
listen, if you really think there's something up with John and even if there's not, could you just let him know that he can always call me? I mean just if he ever wants to talk or anything.  
Scott  
We should talk more often and it's my fault that we don't. just let him know it's not like I forgot about him or anything, okay? I'm still here if any of you ever need anything.  


Eight thousand miles away, Virgil winces. It's unkind, leaving his big brother with something to brood about, especially something like this. Scott's got reasons of his own to be especially concerned about this kind of thing, and for those specific reasons, Virgil's sure that his judgement and insight and opinion would be more valuable than anyone else's, even their father's. He needs exactly the help that his brother's offering, and more than anything he wishes he could just tell Scott what's happened, because it's still happening.

But he doesn't.

Scott  
  
Virgil  
sure.  
Scott  
Okay. Thanks. have a good drive, v. say hi to Gordon and Johnny for me.  
Virgil  
later, scott.  


With that, he mutes his phone and then deliberately drops it into the car's central console, heaving a sigh and rubbing his eyes as he does so. Sometimes managing his family feels a lot like juggling, only Virgil doesn't actually know how to juggle. He knows how to keep Gordon carefully contained when his occasional urges towards wildness and nihilistic rebellion flare up, knows how to talk him down from that edge. He knows how to be there for Scott; what to say to let his eldest brother know that he's still connected to the family, no matter where he is or how remote he feels. He knows how to report in to his father, and that more than anything Dad just wants to know that his boys are okay, without giving into the urge to micromanage every last detail of their lives.

One on one, nobody's that difficult to deal with. Virgil's long since learned all the ins and outs of his brothers as individuals. It's in concert that they begin to be tricky to manage.

He's still lost in thought when Gordon raps his knuckles sharply on the passenger side window and gestures at the lock. He has a bag stuffed with junk food looped around the wrist of his free hand and a tray of coffee cups in the other. Waiting by the rear door on the same side, John isn't carrying anything, but has his hands tucked in the pockets of his coat against a briskly rising wind. The east coast is cold in March.

The sound of the mechanism disengaging seems loud in the muffled silence inside the car and Virgil can't help a guilty glance at his phone, though it's muted and stashed in the central console. There's a burst of cold air through the open doors and then the car is filled with fresh air and movement as his brothers climb in, taking their respective seats and settling themselves in.

"Would you like to know how much sugar's in the horrific concoction you've requested instead of real coffee?" Gordon inquires brightly, depositing two paper cups in the forward two cupholders, before he hands the tray back to John, who takes it without a word. "Because it's a _lot_ , Virg. That's not coffee, that is sugary white _death_."

Virgil shrugs and waits until his brothers have refastened their seat belts before he puts the car in gear and checks his mirrors, getting ready to back out of his parking space and finally get the hell out of Boston. "We're on vacation."

"Some vacation," John murmurs from the back seat, taking a small and tentative sip of a cup of something that's probably still too hot to drink, and then puts it in a cupholder. Virgil wonders if he'll even touch it again.

But for the first time since this whole ordeal started, there's a hint of something different in his voice and Virgil feels an unexpectedly hopeful flutter in the center of his chest.

And John continues, deceptively neutral, "So far my favourite part was when you ransacked my bedroom and took all my drugs and then dragged me out of my apartment to go spend the rest of the week in some antiquated shack in the woods, because _Gordon's_ idea of a fun vacation is to ruin my entire life."

Of course, John's sense of humour is so dry it's practically a desiccant, and tends to shrivel the life out of conversations with people who don't know him well. And while Gordon cringes in the passenger seat, it's only because he doesn't know John _quite_ as well as Virgil does.

Virgil knows just enough to twist in his seat to grin at his brother. "Wait," he says, deadpan and affecting a mocking seriousness, "are you suggesting that late March on the New England coast is _not_ actually a premium vacation destination for strung-out drug-addicts in the throes of amphetamine withdrawal?"

A pair of bright green eyes return his gaze evenly, as John answers, glib and vaguely self-deprecating, "Well, I think it would be a lot more bearable if I had a better caliber of stimulant available."

"Adderall would certainly make the Adderall withdrawal a lot less miserable, is what you're saying."

There's a definite glimmer in John's eyes now, and Virgil reflects that it's ages since they've had this kind of interaction, arch and dry as dust, and usually at Gordon's expense. "I mean, I wouldn't say no."

"Mmhm. Bit of a catch-22, there, J-bird."

"Oh, I assure you, I'm aware."

"Yeah, I guess you probably are." Virgil turns back to drum his fingers on the steering wheel, as Gordon busies himself rummaging through his recent purchases. But he finds his gaze drifting to the rearview mirror again, and he watches John fasten his seat belt. He then curls up against the car door, resting his forehead against the window with a sigh that fogs the glass as his eyes close. After a few moments of silence, before they hit the road and he loses his brother to the lull of white noise and highway driving, Virgil feels the need to ask, "How're you holding up, Johnny?"

John doesn't respond immediately. Gordon's uncharacteristically silent in the passenger seat, but he stops rummaging through his bag for a moment, pausing to listen. It's the middle of the day, early afternoon, but the light in the car still seems cool and dim beneath a sky that's grown overcast and gray. The heat stolen from the car when the doors had opened has already almost been replaced, but Boston is cold in March, and the sense of a chill in the air still lingers. Eventually John opens his eyes again, but he doesn't look up. His gaze seems fixed on a point somewhere in the middle distance, outside his window. "I don't know how you want me to answer that."

That brief flicker of warm hope in Virgil's chest seems to gutter and fade. "Well...honestly, I guess. How else would you answer?"

John shrugs. His voice takes on a certain obvious quality of falseness, and his cadence is rote and mechanical as he recites, "I'm all right. This is fine. I think this is going to work. I'm glad you two are here. I'm okay."

Virgil doesn't like the sound of any of that. He risks a glance at Gordon, but Gordon's staring out the front window with a fixed expression, something grim about the set of his jaw. He reaches up to adjust the mirror and get a better look at their big brother, but John's returned to staring out the window.

"Honestly, though?"

There's another pause, but shorter, and while John still sounds like he's rattling off a list, this time his voice is a little too raw to be anything but honest. "I feel awful. I haven't been this tired since the last time I tried to do this. My head hurts and I'm angry and I'm starving. It's hard to think. When we were inside, people were talking, but I couldn't understand anything they said. I don't want to do this. I shouldn't have let you come out here, I wish none of this was happening. I've only gotten this far because you two are forcing me. I hate that you came here and did this to me and I hate myself for letting it happen in the first place and if there were a way I could make it all just _stop_ , I'd take it."

That last makes Virgil's throat seize up a little bit, so it's good that Gordon's the one who twists in his seat and speaks up, channeling all his sincerity and wholehearted belief that they can get through this together, "That's all...I mean, that's all just how this goes, though. It's hard to get through, but you _are_ getting through it. You've got a whole forty-eight hours behind you, and the worst is over. It's gonna start to get easier. I know it doesn't feel like it, Johnny, but I swear, it's better than the alternative. You were really, like, _actually_ killing yourself. However tough things have been out here---with Harvard and Dad everything---I _know_ you don't want that."

There's a warning in John's voice now, warding away from that line of thought. "I think you probably shouldn't talk like you know what I want. I think maybe _you_ don't want to know how wrong you are. And I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Gordon, demonstrating that he's capable of learning from previous mistakes, backs right off. "Okay. Sorry, John. I didn't mean to upset you. Maybe you can get some rest on the drive out. We'll keep it quiet."

John's already retrieved a pair of earphones out of the pocket of his coat, unwinding a neatly wrapped cord. He doesn't answer as he puts his earbuds in and curls up against the window once again. Virgil readjusts his mirror and devotes his concentration to driving, though he's no longer looking forward to the drive. He'd had vague expectations of classic rock and terrible food, maybe a decent conversation about the way the weekend's gone so far, but clearly they're not there yet. Now he expects to spend four hours in uncomfortable silence, trapped with the awareness that things haven't gotten better.


	7. Chapter 7

When they’d picked up the key, the esteemed Dean of Admisssions neglected to mention that the cottage it belongs to is inaccessible by car. Or, at least, inaccessible by the sensible sedan Virgil had rented at the airport. So their four hour drive had reached its terminus in a small, wooded parking lot—packed dirt, not even paved—just off the end of the road that had brought them ninety-nine percent of the way to their destination. The rest of the way is going to require a two-mile trek down a sandy, unpaved access road, a thoroughly wooded lane lined by cottages. Their destination, predictably, is at the very end of this path.

At first, Virgil had expected this news to be met with flat, dour refusal on John’s part; with justifiable protestations about his relative levels of exhaustion and patience—but the drive out seems to have worked a change in his brother. He’s still quiet and subdued, but when told about the last leg of their journey, his initial reaction isn’t anger. Just a shrug of his shoulders and a nod of acquiescence. One they’re parked and out of the car, John climbs out and stretches, and looks around their surroundings with something that might even be interest, though he doesn’t go far.

Gordon, by contrast, practically explodes out of the passenger seat, and rightly so. Once his feet hit the ground, he stops just shy of turning an exuberant handspring before setting off to jog a brisk few laps around the parking lot. This is just what’s to be expected, after Gordon’s been cooped up anywhere for any substantial length of time. There was a point in time when Virgil would’ve considered a four hour drive in near silence to be beyond his little brother’s capabilities. But apparently that time has passed, because Gordon’s just done it, without even one word of complaint.

A predictable change had come over him as they’d gotten in sight of the sea, and from that point it had been rather like sharing the car with an anxiously excited labrador puppy. They’d taken the ferry across the Vineyard Sound, and Gordon hadn’t been able to help taking himself up to the observation deck, while Virgil and John had stayed in the car below decks, talking quietly about nothing in particular. Between the two of them they’d eaten what remained of the snacks purchased for the trip.

And then there’d been a drive through a picturesque little town, where Virgil had carefully made a mental note of the hospital they’d driven past, and Gordon had chattered excitably about the possibility of taking a swim in the Atlantic Ocean, and John had just sat quietly in the backseat, watching but not commenting as they’d come to the end of the main drag.

And now they’re here, in a little wooded parking lot with only two other cars and no other people, and a narrow, sandy path winds off into the woods. It’s late in the afternoon, and the light is just beginning to grow golden. The air is crisp and damp and smells of the sea, and seems to carry the sound of waves further than it should be able to, through the rustling of the wind in the trees.

And maybe, finally, something’s changed for the better. Virgil can’t quite pinpoint the source of the feeling, but as his older brother joins him by the trunk of the car, he’d almost swear that something’s different.

“It’s quiet here,” John observes, making the comment offhandedly, as Virgil unloads the trunk and methodically checks to make sure he has everything, all the requisite keys, his wallet and his phone. He almost doesn’t expect it when John holds out a hand for the strap of his backpack, and he realizes in that moment that he’d mentally assigned himself the task of carrying John’s bag. He manages to cover for the moment of reluctance before he hands it over and closes the trunk. “Boston isn’t quiet.”

“It’s nice,” Virgil agrees, and then promptly disrupts the quietness with a sharp, piercing whistle, attempting to summon Gordon back from the far end of the parking lot. “Come get your bag, dumbass!” he calls. “We gotta go!”

Gordon comes scampering over, grinning from ear to ear and all wound up by the sea air and the freedom to move around again and possibly the same sense of change that Virgil’s noticed. It’s a truth about Gordon that he can be absolutely irrepressible when he’s really and properly happy, and something about being close to the ocean never seems to fail to make him happy. And he’s completely and obviously pleased with himself as he declares, “I’m a genius. This was a _great_ idea.”

“This was Dad’s idea,” Virgil points out, and hefts his bag over his shoulders. And then, absently, “We’ll have to call and let him know we got here okay.”

He realizes a moment to late that this is the sort of prospect that might upset his brother, but when he glances at John, he doesn’t seem to have noticed. Instead, he’s peering down the winding path that waits for them, cut through a forest that’s dense with trees, but still sparse with new green leaves. He hasn’t reacted to the notion of calling their father, and Virgil clears his throat as he hastily changes the subject. “—But we’ve gotta get there first. You guys got everything?”

Gordon slings his backpack over his shoulders and bounces up onto the toes of his sneakers, already restive and ready to go. “Yes, Mom.”

Virgil ignores this and taps John’s shoulder, just to make sure he’s got his attention. “J, you up for a bit of a walk? Gonna be all right?”

“I’m fine,” John answers, and then, dryly, “I’m better off than I was the last time you made me walk anywhere.”

Virgil blinks. “When did I…?”

“You dragged me three times around the track at the park by my apartment on Friday night and _legitimately_ almost killed me.”

Only he doesn’t say it like he’s angry. In fact, unless Virgil very much mistakes his brother’s tone, John’s said it like he meant it to be funny, and of all the unpredictable things that could happen next, Gordon actually laughs, and gives Virgil a shove on John’s behalf.

“Well, but you’re still here though. C'mon, let’s go. I wanna get to the water before the sun goes down.”

It becomes obvious as they start down the path from the parking lot that there was really no way the car could’ve gone much further. It’s the off season, and the road is rough from lack of use. It’s walkable, and would probably be drivable with a more robust sort of vehicle, but the drive would’ve been a miserable exercise. At points the path narrows further than it seems a car would even be able to pass, and though the greenery is still sparse this early in spring, the wood around the path is dense on either side, and what cottages they pass are set far back from the path. Even worn out and exhausted as he is, John’s long-legged and walks quickly, and Gordon very deliberately keeps up beside him, while Virgil trails a few paces behind, watching them both.

For a while they walk in companionable silence, acclimating to the change in environment. Vacations have always been part of their family’s life in one capacity or another—simple road trips early in their childhood, and on to more elaborate destinations as the family’s fortunes increased. A few years back the entire family had gone to Hawaii, though it had been Gordon who’d had Virgil’s attention then. He’d been newly beneath their father’s thumb and meant to be kept on a short leash. Hawaii had been the first time since his ill-fated eighteenth birthday that their father had permitted him a little bit more freedom, with the provision that he stuck with Virgil.

But it hadn’t been bad. It had been pleasantly surprising, even, to spend time with Gordon and discover that he cared more about surfing and rock climbing and frolicking in the Pacific than he did about sneaking off their father’s radar and getting into trouble. That his bad behaviour was a symptom of his lack of direction, and not emblematic of a significant shift in his actual personality.

Discipline is Gordon’s silver bullet. It had been what pulled him out of the rocky few years after their mother’s death and set him on the path to his Olympic Gold. The subsequent loss of that structure had sent him spiraling off the rails again, and into a sort of desperate anarchy. Absent of anything specific to devote his attention towards, instead he’d decided to try anything and everything, and preferably all of it at once. It had taken their father pulling him up short to put a stop to that.

As he watches Gordon reach out and catch John’s elbow as he trips over a deep rut in the road, Virgil wonders if there’s a similar solution for John. Maybe it’s naive, but Virgil finds himself hoping that the reminder that people actually care about him might at least start to make the difference. The fact that _Gordon_ does should count for something.

“Hey, V?” Gordon calls over his shoulder, and slows a bit to allow Virgil to catch up. John, consciously or not, matches the change in pace, and Virgil winds up between the pair of them again. “Umm. I just, uh. Had a thought. About something.”

“Well, don’t panic, I’m sure it’ll dissipate soon enough.”

Gordon shoves him, but not hard enough to set him stumbling, nor with enough fervour to merit a casual tussle. “Fuck off. I think this might actually be important, because, like…uh…well. _Um_. So, um, so, John?”

At Virgil’s elbow, John adjusts his grip on his backpack and diverts his attention from the pathway ahead. They’ve only come about half a mile, and since his comment about Friday night, Virgil’s been keeping an eye on him, but so far he doesn’t seem winded. “Hm?”

Gordon clears his throat. “Did you, um. So, I guess you _had_ to have had—like…I mean, did you have a—a dealer? Like, for the drugs? Also, please appreciate for a second just how difficult it is for me to ask my big brother whether or not he has a drug dealer, but like—umm. Is that, uh, is that gonna be a…a problem?”

Virgil hadn’t considered this factor and the thought that someone else knows about his brother and his drug addiction causes him a sudden jolt of anxiety, but John seems unperturbed. Maybe even a little perplexed. “Why would that be a problem?”

Gordon blinks and then glances around, as though there might be someone nearby who might overhear their discussion. It’s not likely—this is very clearly the off-season, and they haven’t seen a soul since they started walking. If the cottages that line this road are occupied, their occupants are uninterested in other visitors. “Well! Uh, just, like, speaking from personal experience—people make a pretty big deal about it, when we fuck up. Or…I mean, like, when I did, anyway. That shit hit the tabloids faster than I even realized was _possible_.”

It’s possible there’s still some lingering disdain on John’s part, hearing the whole thing brought up again, because he grunts disapprovingly. “You _were_ warned, if I remember correctly. Nothing that happened to you was surprising.”

Gordon waves a hand dismissively, as though the minor campaign of tabloid blackmail that had resulted from his post-Olympic antics is a matter that can be waved away. “Whatever. There were people who knew about me, and the kinda shit I got up to, and anyone who knows our _name_ knows about the family it’s attached to. It’s…I guess what I mean is, if this guy—uh, or girl, or whoever, not meaning to pigeonhole your drug dealer based on their gender—like, if he’s been selling you drugs, and if he knows _anything_ about you—do we need to make sure nothing, uh, happens, with that? Like, do we need to deal with some shit?”

“No pun intended, I’m sure.”

“No, _no pun intended_ , because I’m trying to figure out if some drug-dealing shithead is gonna sell an exclusive scoop about John Glenn Tracy’s Adderall addiction to whatever gossip rag bids highest, because he suddenly lost you as a customer.”

That sounds awful. Virgil hasn’t commented, because what the hell does _he_ know about drug dealers, but he’s already mentally composing a list of people who might know how to deal with this problem, and who could be trusted not to bring it to their father. Scott, obviously, is the top of the list, though he’s too far away to do anything but advise. Uncle Lee leaps to mind, though Virgil hasn’t seen the old astronaut since graduation, and this is a bit more serious than that time he scratched the paint on Scott’s first car. Kayo, maybe. Their foster sister is an almost universally unknown quantity, in situations like this, but she’s smart and practical and knows the sorts of things her father knows, because Kyrano is absolutely a last resort. Kyrano would certainly _solve_ the problem, but there’s the lingering impression that he might solve it by disappearing its source. And he’d be guaranteed to tell their father pretty much immediately.

There’s absolutely nothing funny about this, especially considering Gordon’s relevant and relatively painful experience on the subject, but it’s still the first thing that makes John laugh, really and properly, since this whole mess started. The sound of it echoes through the slowly greening limbs of the woods around them, but doesn’t get far. “Christ,” he says, and shakes his head. “That’s _not_ funny,” he adds, half to himself, as though he needs the reminder.

“No, it’s fucking well not!” Gordon agrees, affronted. “Nothing about that is funny! Shit, Johnny. Is this…what, hysteria? D'you understand what we’re talking about? _Blackmail_. Because if this person can get at you—”

John shakes his head, and despite Gordon’s histrionics, he still seems unconcerned. Virgil can’t help but take a little bit of comfort from that. “He won’t.”

“You sure? Because there were a lot of people in _my_ circle who seemed like I could trust ‘em, but it turns out a lot of my friends were the sorta people who got quoted in articles calling me a drug-addled, sex-addicted, alcoholic trashfire. And I was probably only like, one and a _half_ of those things.”

“What I’ve been doing isn’t like what you did,” John states, clear and deliberate, for the second time in Virgil’s memory. “Calm down, Gordon.”

Telling Gordon to calm down is one of the most reliable ways to get him spun up again, and he heaves an irritated sigh. “ _John_. Do. You. Have. A. Drug. Dealer?”

John shrugs. “I guess that’s technically the term for the arrangement, sure.”

“Somebody in the world has sold you drugs. And you’re somehow not worried about that being a problem, because—?”

Incongruently, John chuckles again and there’s an unusual note of darkness to it. “Because he’s never _met_ me. Because I have his entire life on a hard drive. On several hard drives, because backups are important. Because if I wanted to, I could torch his entire life. I may, still. I haven’t actually decided.”

Well. That’s more sinister than anything Virgil was expecting to hear from his brother, and he attempts to share a concerned glance with Gordon, but Gordon’s pushed past him to snag John’s elbow and stop him in the middle of the road. “What? What the hell does that mean?”

“ _Don’t_. Do _not_ touch me.”

John pulls sharply free of Gordon’s grasp, and there’s enough warning in the movement that Gordon steps a half-pace back, already holding his hands up as Virgil puts a hand on his chest and pushes him a few steps further. “Guys,” he warns, with that low rumble of their father’s thunder in his voice. “Let’s not start.”

He makes it sound as though he’d somehow be a part of the collective effort, “ _starting_ ”, but it’s still just the two of them, reflexively clashing. Whenever John seems to rally, so far he’s always blown that resurgence of energy on scrapping with Gordon, and Virgil’s finally caught on in time to stop the cycle.

And the pair of them look at each other, just for a moment longer than they might have otherwise, and the tension passes. They’ve come to some silent agreement, the two of them, and they both stand down.

“Sorry,” Gordon says, cautiously extending an olive branch, prodding it at his brother. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have grabbed you.”

John’s hand’s gone, involuntarily, to where Gordon had touched him.  "It’s fine,“ he answers, almost embarrassed. "I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just…not used to it. Sorry.”

“Nah, my bad. Still kinda wanna know what the deal is with your dealer, though.”

John shrugs again. “He’s a cretin and I own him.”

“Yeah, uh huh. Those are two admittedly interesting but fundamentally _discrete_ facts that don’t actually explain what the hell the deal is, Johnny. Do you think…could you maybe start at the beginning? I think me and Virg probably both just really wanna know how the hell this all happened. To _you_ , of all people.”

Gordon’s probing towards the story at the heart of this whole thing; just how exactly John had gotten started on drugs in the first place. John hasn’t avoided talking about it, exactly, but the subject hasn’t come up before now, and there hasn’t seemed the right moment to ask the question. If Gordon’s asking it now, John doesn’t answer immediately and instead starts walking again, leaving his brothers to fall in step alongside him, not too close. For a few dozen yards, there’s only the sound of footfalls on rough gravel, before Gordon prompts again, “John?”

“I mean,” John starts, but he doesn’t slow down, and he keeps his gaze fixed on the path ahead, as though acknowledging that he’s having this conversation with other people will make it that much harder to have. “You have to understand—and I know I didn’t, when I started—but you have to understand, drugs are just part of how things get _done_ , at Harvard. At the level I have to maintain. I think I didn’t expect the…the _ubiquity_ of it. It feels like such an open secret, among the student body generally, I didn’t—I didn’t know it would be like that. I never thought it would seem necessary.”

“Why was it?” Virgil questions, hoping that they’ll finally start to get to the bottom of the beginning of this thing, the nightmare that’s had ahold of their brother.

He and Gordon are a step or two behind John, and Virgil watches him shrug his shoulders again, though he can’t see his brother’s face. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t the difficulty of it. It was just that it was so hard to focus, so hard to _care_. And going into my second year, the direction shifted, and everything became more—more collaborative. More group projects, more focus on leadership, and I just—I needed to be _better_. People were watching me, and everyone seemed like they expected me to be _more_. And it was just _nervewracking_ , because _everyone_ knows our father. And everybody knows why he sent me to Harvard. I’m supposed to graduate with honours and an MBA, and then I’m supposed to—supposed to be whatever he tells me, I guess. Because I’m not anybody in my own right; I’m Jeff Tracy’s son. I don’t think I’m expected to be anything else.”

Virgil winces and wonders how John could possibly have let himself believe something so obviously untrue—but Gordon breaks into a trot, closes the few paces of distance between him and John. This time he’s careful, ginger, as he puts a sympathetic hand on John’s shoulder. “I get that,” he says, and sounds like he means it. “That kinda pressure—god, Johnny, you don’t deserve that. Not for something you don’t even _care_ about. I mean, at least all _I_ ever had to do was swim in a straight line a few thousand times. And I cared a _lot_ about that.”

There’s a soft huff of laughter from John again, and then an unexpected compliment, “You swam in a straight line _really well_ , that one time.”

Gordon grins, and the sunlight through the trees catches the gold in his hair as he nods. “Oh yeah, I kicked that straight line straight in the ass. Got the medal to prove it. But y'know…it’s like…I mean, it’s not like _that one time_ was the fastest I’ve ever swum a hundred meters? It’s the weirdest thing, that it’s just that _one_ race. It’s not the average of ten races, or a hundred, or a thousand. Because it’s not _just_ being fast. It’s being fast every damn time, and it’s being fast when everybody’s watching, and it’s being fast when it counts. Everybody else in that race swam just as well as me, like, by _definition_. It was the fucking Olympics. There were favourites to win, sure, I don’t even remember if I was one of 'em, but everybody’s on the same level. I _definitely_ know there was a six foot tall Canadian who made me _real_ nervous. But—at that level, it’s just about finding whatever you’ve got to make yourself just that little bit better. Just that one time. Just when it counts. Just one paper. Just one test. Just one all-nighter. And then suddenly your entire life becomes the average of every time it was supposed to be 'just once’.”

The beat of silence that passes between them speaks volumes about something Virgil’s never considered before; that John and Gordon might have more in common than even _he’s_ ever imagined, even caught as he is, exactly between the two of them. He’s not separating them now, and he doesn’t _belong_ between them now, the three of them wandering along a rough path through the woods in a strange part of the world, somewhere none of them have been before, somewhere they’re only lucky to be together.

Gordon’s voice is uncharacteristically soft when he asks, “Does that all sound about right?”

It takes John a moment to answer, and even the light through the trees seems to dim around them as he clears his throat, as a cloud passes over the distant sun, makes the fall of evening seem that much closer. Virgil almost can’t stand the sadness in his brother’s voice, as he says, “More than I thought you’d know.”

And Virgil realizes that they’ve got so much further still to go.


	8. Chapter 8

It’s not yet sunset, the days slowly growing longer with the advancement of the year, but the light over the ocean is still warm and golden and welcoming. The grasses are still brown and dull from winter, and the breeze off the sea is cool and damp, but the place is beautiful. It’s the right kind of quiet, too, a quiet filled with the sounds of the wind through the grass and the persistent roll of the sea, and the soft cries of gulls in the distance. The air tastes salty and smells fresh and the sky overhead is full of loosely torn handfuls of cloud, tinted with the rosy gold light of the sun.

The cottage itself is a smallish structure, though even seen from the outside Virgil’s still fairly sure it’s at least twice the size of John’s shoebox of an apartment. Its exterior is covered in weathered blue-gray shingles, and the shallow slope of its roof suggests that the ceiling inside is probably low, if not exposed to the rafters. The shore facing lagoon behind them is soft and sandy, the shore facing the sound is rockier, a steeper slope down to the water. A deck extends off the back of the cottage, facing out over the sea.

It waits at the end of what must be an artificial spit of land, a broad stretch of sand and dirt and dune grass, deliberately constructed to lie between the Vineyard Sound and a large, marshy lagooon. It’s old enough that it’s overgrown to the point it seems natural, but too straight to be anything but a deliberate construction, mean to shield the lagoon from erosion by the sea in the sound. There are perhaps another half-dozen cottages along the quarter-mile stretch of the road that breaks from the wood, running along the length of the shore to an inlet at the end. All of them are empty, and conversation between the three of them—the only three people here—has dwindled as they’ve gotten nearer to their destination.

The newly formed bridge between his brothers still seems delicate and fragile, as though any interference might break everything down again, so Virgil’s voice feels trite and falsely casual as he speaks up, trying to comment on something that lacks the same gravity as drug addiction, or the dehumanizing pressure of their father’s presumed expectations. “Hey, we made it!” he says, bright and cheerful. “That’s pretty nice, isn’t it? Charming. Just rustic enough. Picturesque, even.”

John doesn’t react, staring out over the sea, but Gordon’s not about to let this statement pass unremarked, and he arches an eyebrow in Virgil’s direction. “Y'know,” he starts, blase and insincere, “I’ve probably fooled around with about _twice_ as many dudes as you ever have, so it’s not like I don’t know we have it in common—but somehow, sometimes, I still manage to forget that you are just gay as _shit_ , Virgil.”

The dune grass that lines the path leading up to the door of the cabin is thick with winter’s undergrowth and therefore nice and springy, such that Gordon practically bounces when Virgil gives him an easy, absent-minded shove, knocks him off his feet and sends him sprawling. “Charming,” he declares again, and plants a foot on his little brother’s chest before he can even start to get up. He slowly leverages the eighty pounds of mass by which he outweighs his brother, until Gordon’s wheezing melodramatically in protest. “Yup. Pictur _esque_.”

“Uncle!” Gordon gasps, and then groans as Virgil lets up, kicking him lightly in the ribs. He rolls over and gets back to his feet, dusting off his pants and muttering vengefully, though he doesn’t retaliate. “ _Jesus_.”

“Do we have the keys?” John asks, apparently indifferent to his brothers and their minor scuffle. “It’s getting cold.”

“You’re _always_ cold,” Virgil observes lightly, remembering the layers of blankets on top of his brother’s heavy down comforter, on the bed back in his apartment, but he fishes in his pocket for his keys and jingles them lightly in his hand before tossing them to John. “ _I’m_ starving, and it’s only just occurred to me that all we brought to eat is what’s leftover from the car, which is like, three granola bars and a Gatorade. John, you hungry?”

“I’m good, actually.”

“If there’s a pantry and we make a list of what we use, maybe we could—”

He’s interrupted by Gordon, whose voice is sharp and sudden and probably louder than he realizes, as he says, “Wait.”

And then nothing else. The wind rustles through the grass and the crash of the waves sounds louder than it did a moment ago.

“Um?” Virgil echoes, catching just the hard edge of suspicion in Gordon’s tone, which is grounds for suspicion of his own. He turns to face his little brother and finds him staring pointedly at John. “What?”

“You’re _good_ , actually?”

John blinks and there’s the tiniest sound, his hand clenching around Virgil’s keys. He sounds cautious, careful as he answers, “Yeah?”

“Your body’s been _starving_. This morning you ate a six egg omelette, a stack of pancakes, and the other half of a pound of bacon. And then half an hour later you wanted to know if there was any lasagna left, despite the fact that you ate over a third of the damn thing last night. Before we left Boston, you made me buy like a dozen granola bars, and you ate _five_ of them before we were even out of the store. When someone asks _you_ if you’re _hungry_ —your answer is just ’ _yes_ ’.”

There’s an awkward pause, and Virgil’s missed something. Something about the way Gordon’s shoulders have set, the way his jaw’s gone tight—something about the way John’s frozen, the way he bites his lower lip, the way his eyes narrow slightly, like he’s suddenly struggling with a question he doesn’t quite know the answer to. There’s something intensely famliar about him, almost nostalgic, as Virgil watches him wrangling with a problem, trying to think his way through something big and complicated. He’s watching closely enough that he sees the moment when John’s forced to admit defeat, in the face of their suddenly indignant, irate little brother.

And when he finally speaks, John sounds reluctant, but resigned, as he says, “Ah. Well. Shit.”

“ _Yeah_ , no fucking kidding. ’ _Shit_ ’. You _ass_.”

“Uh, guys?” Virgil asks uncertainly, still suspicious, but not entirely sure what exactly this exchange is about. There’s one glaringly obvious possibility, and John’s apparent guilt makes it seem likely—but Virgil can’t see how it could’ve happened. “Umm…?”

Gordon heaves a sigh and folds his arms tautly across his chest. He ignores Virgil and continues to glower at John. He retreats into barbed, acerbic sarcasm and adopts a falsely bright tone as he declares, “Well, _now_ we get to play my favourite game in the _whole entire world_! It’s called ’ _what the fuck did you take and when did your dumbass take it?_ ’ Player One? You wanna take a stab?”

Virgil’s stomach drops as though he’s just swallowed a fistful of lead, as John ignores the question and its associated conceit. His admission is tacit, because he just seems genuinely curious, mildly perplexed as he asks, “Is that really the only reason you could tell, though? Just because I forgot to pretend to be hungry?”

“No, in retrospect, your ass has been way too fucking chipper and _way_ too fucking articulate, since about the time we hit this side of the sound. Was it on the ferry? It was on the fucking ferry. Jesus Christ, I leave you alone for twenty goddamn minutes, and—”

“You use the word ‘ass’ a lot.”

“No, _you_ just hear it a lot, because you’re a fucking _horse’s ass_ , John!”

Gordon’s shouting now, ostensibly angry, but John’s tone remains calm and mild, probably for the first time since Friday night. Damningly, he seems amused, almost pleased with himself, as he makes another vaguely irreverent comment, “And 'fucking’, too.”

Standing between the pair of them, Virgil’s the last one to come to the conclusion that Gordon finds so obvious and John so trivial, and he feels slow and uncertain as he says, “You…you took something else? John?”

But it’s Gordon who answers, still glowering at their brother, though he lowers his volume. “Yeah, he did. _What_ and _when_ , John?”

“We’ve been with him the whole damn time, though!” Virgil objects, before John can answer (if he even plans to answer). “He _couldn’t_ have—John. You’re not—you didn’t _really_ , though. Right? You didn’t. Gordon’s just screwing around.”

Even as he says it, Virgil realizes that this was the wrong thing to say, because it represents an assumption that _always_ gets made about Gordon, and Virgil’s one of the people who’s supposed to know better. Before he can scramble to take it back, Gordon’s backpack falls from his shoulders and thuds in the sand, and then he puts himself squarely in Virgil’s personal bubble, jabs a finger sharply against Virgil’s collarbone. And this is going to be bad.

“How the fuck does it happen,” Gordon starts, in a voice that’s low and furious and barely restrained from screaming, “that _he_ can _lie_ about having more fucking drugs, can _take_ more fucking drugs—probably on _your_ watch, by the way, because _I_ sure as fuck would’ve caught him at it—can _admit_ to taking more fucking drugs…and somehow I _still_ get blamed for it? He fucks up and _admits_ to fucking up and _your_ first instinct is still ’ _John_ wouldn’t do that, so it’s gotta be fucking _Gordon_ again’? _Really_?”

“I didn’t mean—”

And he hadn’t, but he still lets it happen, when the heels of Gordon’s hands shove hard against his chest and send him stumbling a step backward. He’s honestly lucky he wasn’t slugged in the face, and knows it. Gordon storms past him, and the grass rustles with his passage as he breaks from the path and stalks off for the shore, towards the beach that extends past their borrowed cottage.

And watching him go, Virgil feels something he very rarely feels—a sense of utter and abject stupidity. He feels like an idiot for having let this happen. And, worse still, he feels helpless now that it has. He doesn’t knwo what to do. Everything’s been horrible, and just when he thinks things can’t get worse, somehow the floor falls through. He wants this not to be his problem any more, he wants an adult, a _real_ adult, Scott or his father or Uncle Lee or just _anyone_ else.

It seems against all possible odds that John might be the one to step up to meet that need.

But then his big brother clears his throat and bends down to pick up Gordon’s backpack.

“Well,” he says, still calm and somehow unperturbed by everything that’s just happened, “that didn’t quite play out the way I thought it would, but I guess expecting anything else would’ve been unreasonably optimistic.”

And even knowing why, John sounds so much like _himself_ again, so much like the brother Virgil’s always appreciated and admired, for his calmness and brilliance, his patience and his quiet, subtle strength. In John, withdrawal seems like the Hyde to a sensible, even-keeled Dr. Jekyll, expertly and appropriately dosed with the drug that's been killing him. Virgil still doesn’t know for how long the things he admires about his brother have been coming out of a pill bottle, but right now, in a moment like this when he feels as awful and dejected as he does, it’s hard not to feel tempted to just let this be the way things are. To let John step up, into the role he belongs in, and handle everything. He can’t, obviously. John’s a drug addict and he clearly can’t be trusted, so Virgil’s going to have to deal with the current situation. But just for a moment—

“We should head inside,” John says, before that moment can end. “We’re gonna need to figure a few things out.” The keys jingle in his hand again, as he sets off up the path, with a quick, long-legged stride, and leaves his little brother with no choice but to follow him. And worst of all, in his heart of heart's, Virgil's pathetically grateful to do so.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s Virgil’s habit, upon arriving somewhere new, to go through the place from front to back and find out the lay of the land. The front door opens into the back half of the cottage, where a short counter divides the kitchen from a small dining room. Beyond that, main part of the cottage is an open space all clad in dark wood, mostly a living room that looks out over the back deck, and the sea. Down a hallway into the other side of the building are three bedrooms with four beds between them, and a small but serviceable bathroom. The shower stall looks like it’s scaled most appropriately for Gordon—Virgil will be almost too broad and John will be almost too tall—but otherwise, the fittings are all reasonably modern. It’s nice.

And as he comes back down the hallway, he’s surprised and impressed to discover that the walls are actual timber, and not just decorated that way to give the impression that the place is more rustic than it is. The longer he spends in the cottage, the more he gets the sense that the place is actually _old_ , that it’s been modernized here and there—the eat-in part of the eat-in kitchen is actually an extension built off the original structure, and places where the walls aren’t plain timber have been redone in sleek white plaster—but the bones of it are much older. It’s aged well, and it feels homey and comforting, and as he rejoins John in the kitchen, he finds his brother with his backpack resting on the kitchen table, attempting to discern whether or not he can get online in any capacity. His phone is cradled in the palm of one hand, his fingertips skipping lightly over the screen.

Virgil watches him for a while. John’s focused and intent on his task; he’s dropped any semblance of pretext. He’s no longer pretending to be tired or vague or distracted, though there are still dark circles beneath his eyes and, even if he’s temporarily beaten back the symptoms of withdrawal, Virgil just _knows_ that John’s in rougher shape than he lets on.

But he doesn’t sound like it, and he doesn’t look up as he asks, “Do you think it’s contrary to the spirit of this whole enterprise if I attempt to do whatever’s necessary to make there be Internet out here? Because there isn’t any, right at the moment, but I can probably make it happen.”

There’s something almost insulting about the attempt at normalcy, though Virgil has to rummage around in a sticky, muddled up mess of emotions in order to figure out how he wants to react to that. He finds anger and frustration and regret and guilt and anxiety, but ultimately lands on weariness as he stands across the counter from his brother, and ignores John’s question in favour of a question of his own.

“Why? Why’d you have to go and do this, John?”

John looks up now, alert and attentive in a way he hasn’t been all weekend, and it’s _eerie_ , just how much he’s changed. Knowing that this isn’t _really_ his brother, that it’s a version of John that’s been chemically altered—Virgil can’t help a sense of revulsion, distaste for this person standing across the kitchen, false and flawed and unbelievable. John’s tone is even, matter-of-fact as he answers, “Because _you_ gave me the wrong jacket, actually.”

“Huh?”

John plucks at the lapel of his jacket and goes on, explaining, “It’s March. This is for winter, it’s way too dark for spring. You _should’ve_ grabbed the khaki trench coat, but I suppose your sensibilities in that direction landed on ‘flannel’ at some point, and got stuck there. I thought you were supposed to be gay? Dress better, and then maybe Gordon wouldn’t forget. _Anyway_. In November I had to go to a conference in Geneva for a week, for a finance class, and I wore this then.”

This has all been said a little too quickly, such that Virgil just blinks at his brother, bewildered. “Articulate” was the word Gordon had used, and up until now, he realises John just _hasn’t_ been. The patterns of his speech have changed, gotten more complex. Virgil still can’t follow quite what the connection is. “What the fuck are you on about?”

John’s still wearing the coat Virgil had handed him, on their way out of his apartment. It’s nothing special, just a plain woolen overcoat, patterned in dark grey houndstooth. Virgil hadn’t thought about it, he’d just grabbed whatever looked warm, and can’t imagine that some bullshit sartorial oversight has somehow given enough offense that his brother had felt the need to pop more pills—but then John reaches into his pocket and pulls out another innocuous little bottle of aspirin.

Virgil very much doubts that the contents match the label, and wonders if he’ll ever look at a bottle of aspirin the same way again, because his stomach contorts at the sight of it.

“I forgot I had these, honestly,” John says lightly, with the pill bottle balancing on the palm of his hand. His fingers are nimble, deft as they close around it again and the pills within it rattle, as he drops it into the pocket of his jeans. It’s a tacit indication that he has no intention of handing it over—not this time around. "I found them in my pocket before we even left Boston. Only about a dozen. A mix of dosages, mostly regular Adderall, a few extended release. That's what I took, the XR. They've been there since November. Geneva. I really did forget about them, I promise. They were only ever meant to be on hand as a backup."

“You and your _fucking_ backups."A little more contempt than Virgil intends creeps into his voice, and he has no choice but to roll with it, anger welling up from beneath everything else. "But _when_? When the hell could you even have taken anything? I didn’t see—”

“No, you just weren’t watching,” John interrupts him with the correction, and for the first time, out of that deep dark rush of anger, Virgil suddenly understands every impulse Gordon’s ever had to just _slap_ their big brother. His fists clench involuntarily. John shrugs, nonchalant. “Gordon was right. It was on the ferry, while he was up top. You handed me a bottle of Gatorade, pulled open a bag of chips, and told me I should eat something. You may as well have said 'and if you needed cover to pop a pill, there it is.' It—the way it happened—honestly, Virgil, too much just fell into place. I don’t believe in serendipity, but I guess sometimes coincidence can be kind. I knew as soon as I had my hand on the bottle what I was going to do. I couldn't help it. You can’t understand what it’s like to just…to _need_ something like that. It was infinitely harder _not_ to do it than it was just to wait, to find the right moment. Which was basically as soon as Gordon got out of sight. I’m…I mean, I guess I should say I’m sorry, but that’s a lie. I couldn’t possibly regret this. I suppose I hope you don’t think it’s your fault, just because you let it happen. You couldn’t have stopped me.”

It’s like John’s completely forgotten the agony of the past two days, all the fear and exhaustion and anguish he’d gone through, and put Virgil and Gordon through by proxy. He must have no idea of how close Virgil is to just calling this whole charade off, calling their dad and _tattling_ , like he’s eight years old and the events of the weekend thus far concern the contents of a cookie jar instead of an aspirin bottle.

“Well, I’m gonna stop you next time,” he says instead, firm and deliberate, in a voice he’s had to use with Alan and Gordon and even _Scott_ , occasionally, but never had to use with John. “If you think I won't take those off you, you're _dead_ wrong. And you should know that I’m really, _really_ thinking about just hauling your ass to the hospital.”

John blinks at him, bemused. “What for?”

“For your fucking drug addiction, John!”

It’s that knowing amusement that’s most annoying, the gleam in John’s eyes and the suggestion of a smile. “You think you can drag me the whole two miles back to the car, if I don’t want to go?”

Virgil folds his arms and squares his shoulders, and does all the things he doesn’t do, habitually, because he’s aware of the intimidating way he takes up space, with the broadness of his frame and the muscularity of his chest and arms. Still, he’s trying to be at least a _little_ imposing, as he looks his brother up and down and growls, “I think you probably weigh about a hundred and forty pounds _soaking wet_ , and I bench two-thirty on a _bad day_.”

John just laughs at him. “ _Right_. How do you imagine that would go? 'Good _evening_ , very concerned ER doctor, I’ve taken a single dose of Adderall at well below the therapeutic upper limit. Oh, and I guess my brother broke both my arms on the way over.’ Come on, Virgil. This isn’t like Friday night. I don’t need to be in a hospital. I know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t get to tell me you know what you’re doing, when you nearly fucking killed yourself less than forty-eight hours ago!”

Whether this outburst gets through to him or whether John just decides to try a different tactic—Virgil’s not sure. But his brother holds up his hands, deferential, and backs down. “All right. Point made. But, Virgil—I’m okay. This is okay. If I’m sorry for anything, then I’m sorry for Friday night. That was my fault, I made a mistake. The timing was bad, and I overdid it. I know I scared you. But I promise, this isn’t like that. This was a rational choice.”

Virgil scowls at him. “Excuse me if I don’t think _your_ word is good for much, right now. You said you wanted to stop!” His hands clench into fists at his sides and he feels so disgusted and frustrated by his brother. “You’ll be right back to square one now, you realize. You’re gonna go through all that bullshit again, with the crash and the exhaustion and…and just everything. All of it, all over again. God _damn it_ , John. How can this possibly be worth it?”

John shrugs again. “It is, and it will be, but I understand if you don’t believe me about that right now. I just—to make a long story short, you turned up on Friday night, and this whole godawful sequence of events kicked off. And so I haven’t gotten the chance to be myself in the entire time you two have been here. I made a choice, and whatever you think, I had my reasons. Foremost among them was the fact that I was fucking _miserable_.”

Virgil groans with the frustration of it all, how willfully shortsighted his brother’s being. “But this doesn’t _fix_ that, it just—it’s just delaying the inevitable.”

John just shrugs and retrieves his phone from the table top, unlocking it. He thumbs idly through a few screens, but apparently comes away disappointed by the lack of a signal, because he drops it back into his pocket, to keep his bottle of Adderall company. “I know what I’ve done, Virg. A lot better than you do, honestly. And there were other reasons. Better reasons, even. I think I could even talk you around to my perspective, if you let me.” He pauses, and demonstrates the sharpness that’s been missing these past few days, as he hazards, “—But I think you probably don’t want to let me, right now.”

Virgil sighs and rubs his eyes. “I think I don’t want to watch this happen to you again.”

This is met with a few moments of what might even be a slightly guilty silence, before John clears his throat. "Well. There's at least twelve hours before _that's_ going to be a problem. Uh, again. So—I mean, while I appreciate your concern, right now I'm just going to try to enjoy being myself again, for a while."

“But this _isn’t_ you!” Virgil snaps, hating the idea that his brother believes something so obviously false.

The look John gives him is a weird mix of sympathy and amusement, and Virgil’s skin crawls. “This has _been_ me to one degree or another for the past year and a half, Virgil. And if you and Gordon want to know how and why that year and a half happened, then I need to be able to _think_. I just—I need to be able to explain myself. Please. Trust me.”

John seems to entirely miss the irony of asking Virgil to trust him, when he’s just proven himself a liar.

And abruptly, Virgil can’t bring himself to care anymore. It’s like his stress levels have hit a saturation point, and he tips over into apathy, disconnection, disinterest in this stranger standing across from him, entreating his trust. The sun’s beginning to set outside, and the mention of Gordon reminds Virgil that he hasn’t come inside yet, and _that’s_ probably about to be Virgil’s goddamn problem too. Between the growing chill and the fall of evening, he’s probably not going to be outside much longer, but then, Gordon can also be exceptionally stubborn when his feelings have been hurt. Virgil winces inwardly at the thought of his little brother sitting outside on cold, damp sand, staring out over the ocean and brooding. Gordon’s probably going to be in a terrible mood, but he’s still starting to seem like the lesser of two evils. Virgil’s getting sick of dealing with John. “Whatever. You’re a drug addict, you’ll say anything, and I’d have to be an idiot to believe any of it. I’m gonna go get Gordon before he freezes his ass off.”

If John’s bothered by this indictment, he doesn’t show it. He just clears his throat softly and jerks a thumb over his shoulder, back towards the door. “I was actually thinking I should probably go try and talk to him.”

Virgil scoffs. “ _You_? You’re not talking to Gordon. This morning you said you _hated_ him. Or have you selectively edited that element out of this whole experience, too?”

John spreads his hands helplessly, and shakes his head. “Maybe. Not on purpose. Honestly, I don’t remember half of what I’ve said. I don’t remember much of _anything_ over the past two days. I’ve slept for probably nearly _thirty_ of the past forty-eight hours, and everything else is just a painful, angry blur, because my goddamn _brain_ doesn’t work. I don’t remember anything I’ve said to Gordon. I’m sure a lot of it was probably really shitty, and I’m sorry about that. So I’d like to try and talk to him with my head on straight. That hasn’t been possible before now. I can deal with Gordon. You should try and give me a little credit.”

Virgil gives up. He’s still got his own duffel bag slung over his shoulder, but he drops this to the floor with a thud, starts to shrug out of his jacket. “…Sure. Fine, whatever. You know what? I don’t give a shit. You do what you want, John. Go be Gordon’s problem.”

The change in his tone must give John pause for a moment, because he hesitates before he starts to turn back towards the door. His hand drifts back to his pocket and he quirks his head slightly, watching as Virgil starts to lever off his boots. Virgil ignores him. He intends to go stake a claim on the biggest, comfiest bed in the place, get his sketchbook out of his bag, and jam his headphones in his ears. He intends to retreat into charcoal and Rachmaninoff, and the hell with everything else. His vacation starts _now_.

Or, well, almost now.

“For what it’s worth,” John pipes up, as Virgil starts to rummage through his duffel bag, in search of a moleskine and his pencil case, “—for what it’s worth, Virgil, I didn’t mean to upset you. None of it went quite the way I thought it would. I’m sorry. I’d hoped to get the chance to explain, once we’d all sort of settled in.”

“ _Whatever_ , John. I don’t care.”

John hesitates again, and turns away from the door. The kitchen between them is halved by a counter, and John approaches this, and seems to wrestle with some conclusion. Virgil’s kneeling on the floor, trying to excavate his sketchbook from the lowest strata of his bag when he hears the rattle of pills against plastic. He looks up sharply, just as John sets the bottle on the countertop, and then steps deliberately back.

And for a moment he meets his brother’s gaze, in the light of the rapidly setting sun. For a moment he catches the vulnerability there, the suggestion of fear, though his tone stays light, carefully controlled as he says, “Show of good faith.” John’s hands vanish into the pockets of his coat, and he rocks just slightly on the balls of his feet, as though he suddenly has a hard time standing still. “I mean—like, if you could manage _not_ to throw them in the ocean, that’d be—I’d appreciate that. If you really feel that’d be the best course of action, then I guess I’ve made that your call. But I guess—I’m asking you not to. Please, don’t. It’ll make the next few days so much harder than they need to be. I’m gonna go get Gordon. I’d really like to talk, the three of us. We can talk about what happens next.”

Virgil doesn’t have an answer for that. He stands, wordless, and snatches up the little bottle. He can’t help but see John watching it, as it vanishes into the front pocket of his shirt. “Whatever,” he says, one last time, and decisively, because means for it to be the end of the conversation. “Go get Gordon.”

“I’ll try. Thank you.”

He leaves, but Virgil refuses to watch him go. He listens to the click of the door's latch as it closes at his back. Once he's sure John's gone, he pulls out his phone. And against all odds, he gets a signal, where John had not. This is his own version of the same temptation John had faced up against, and failed to conquer. Virgil knows exactly who he wants to call.  
  
But whether or not he'll actually manage to summon up the nerve to call their father is another question entirely.


	10. Chapter 10

The bedroom he chooses faces the lagoon instead of the sound, and seems just a little bit quieter, by comparison. He’s gone back on his desire for the biggest, comfiest bed, in favour of the one least likely to be wanted by either of the others. The other two rooms each have double beds in them, and he leaves these for John and Gordon to claim for themselves. Virgil’s parked himself on a twin bed, nestled up against the outer wall, and stuffed his headphones in his ears. His duffel bag is atop the other bed, and he’s kept the three granola bars and the Gatorade. The door is closed. He’s ditched his jeans and his button-up flannel shirt. He’s switched into shorts and a t-shirt. He is actively investing in the fiction that he doesn’t care.

The London Symphony Orchestra makes for better company than either of his brothers, anyway. Dmitri Vedernikov is a much more interesting and evocative presence on the piano, and seems to be playing exactly what Virgil’s feeling, twisted up crescendos, scherzo and staccato, his own private turmoil in F-minor.

Lying on his stomach on top of a soberly patterned quilt, Virgil’s laid out his phone (half-charged, with a handful of non-urgent emails and a text from his service provider to read), his sketchbook (almost full, and of a ringbound, hard-covered type that he’d discovered at the university bookstore, fallen in love with, and bought in quantity), and the little bottle of not-aspirin (which he hasn’t thrown in the ocean, but not for lack of wanting to).

Given the headache he’s beginning to get, squeezing tight around his temples, he sort of wishes they actually _were_ aspirin. He wonders if it’s worth checking the bathroom, but doesn’t want to risk running into John or Gordon, and stubbornly stays put.

It’s coming up on half past six, but in their father’s office in LA, all the way across the country, it’s mid-afternoon. It’s still the middle of his father’s workday, and the odds of actually reaching him are slim to nil. A call now, even to his private, personal line, will probably connect to a secretary. Whatever Virgil tells them will be evaluated for urgency, and a memo will be forwarded to Jeff Tracy. Just the fact that they’ve reached their destination is enough to merit a mention to his father, but not enough to get him through directly, if Dad’s busy (and Dad’s _always_ busy). So Virgil’s phone waits, but he hasn’t attempted the call yet. He hasn’t figured out what he could possibly say that would get him through to his father, without tipping his hand before he’s ready.

He moves on from his phone and flips open his sketchbook. Virgil’s a note taker to his very bones, he rarely goes anywhere without a notepad of some size available. His thoughts are easiest to wrangle with when they’re visualized, and he turns past pages of quick, fifteen second studies; calc notes and lazily scrawled landscapes; grocery lists and class schedules—he turns to the page where he’d made notes about his brother, and the plain, hard facts of his condition.

Virgil processes information best when he copies it out himself, but he’s frustrated to find that the information he’s copied out is no longer accurate. He’d done some research and then (naively) made a schedule of what the withdrawal process was supposed to look like, mapped against the remainder of their spring break. He’d made notes about those first couple nights, and about the days he expected to follow them, what they needed to watch out for. He’d made lists of typical symptoms and side effects, and meticulously copied out a timeline of how long everything was supposed to last.

It all seems so trite, now, so pat and optimistic. None of the articles he’d glanced through had made any particular mention of what to do or how to deal with it, if one’s addict turns out to have a secret stash of assorted dosages, and decides to take another one in the midst of what’s _supposed_ to be detox. That throws a wrench into his simple, idealized little schedule. Virgil sighs to himself, picks up pen and sketchbook, starts to half-heartedly make an updated version of the same again, taking into account the latest development. But his heart isn’t in it. What’s meant to be a reevaluation of the next few days turns into an examination of his brother’s left hand, in concept, rendering the tendons apparent and ugly beneath his skin, making sure each individual knuckle is bony and prominent.

He goes on. He fills the white spaces with loose, light sketches in scratchy black ink, further studies of John’s hands, his face. Rawbone wrists and knuckles, his hands grown almost skeletal. The hollowness of his eyes, the bony arches of his cheekbones. His face in profile, and the way it’s changed. When he runs out of room for sketches, he starts to decorate the text on the page, marking out boundaries, crosshatching in shading to the edges of boxes. His handwriting on the page is scattered and untidy—if these were notes for a class of any kind, he’d already be planning to go back over them, to tidy them up for proper consumption, for study. But these are just personal, editorialized. It hadn’t been as important to get the information on the page as it had been to get his emotions out, to try and corral his thoughts and process his feelings, and render the situation into something finite, manageable. It helps.

* * *

 

* * *

_art via the marvelous and talented[con-affeto-kiko](http://con-affetto-kiko.tumblr.com/)_

_[(click for fullsize)](http://68.media.tumblr.com/d62a6f07bd46dd457bb57b488fabfca0/tumblr_ovob17halb1uv47b3o1_1280.jpg) _

* * *

 Virgil’s still sketching by the time it’s gotten to get dark properly, though he’s moved onto vague geometrical abstraction on the backside of the page. He’s turned on the lamp by the bedside, and filled the small bedroom with a warm, cozy sort of glow. In his ears, the Rachmaninoff has softened from a rhapsody into an etude, and in spite of himself, he feels better.

His mood has softened to the point that when there’s a quiet knock on his door, it only takes him about a minute to wrestle with the decision before he gives in. With a grunt, he pushes himself up off the bed, and goes to open the door.

Waiting patiently in the hallway, John’s still a more sympathetic figure in ink on paper than he is in the flesh, but he no longer seems quite as wired as he had been before, and Virgil’s not immediately irritated. His brother’s overcoat is gone, obviously, they’ve been here for almost an hour now, and he’s similarly changed into sweatpants and a hoodie, with his hands tucked in the front pocket.

“Hi,” he says, maintaining a carefully respectful distance back from the doorway. “Gordon’s making food.”

“What food?” Virgil leans against the doorframe and wills his stomach not to growl at the mention of an actual meal. The granola bars and Gatorade have gone untouched, not for lack of hunger, but for lack of appetite. “We didn’t bring anything.”

John shrugs. “There’s a pantry. I don’t know what he found; but he seems to think he can pull together something edible. I don’t know, I don’t really cook. Are you going to come eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

This might have gotten past John-in-withdrawal, but John-back-on-drugs furrows his brow and catches him out, “You said you were hungry, before.”

“Yeah, well—” Virgil shrugs and changes his explanation. “Haven’t got much of an appetite.”

“If you say so.” John has the decency not to press the point, but he doesn’t head back down the hall. He doesn’t step forward, but he does lean in slightly, as though he’s hoping to get a look over Virgil’s shoulder. Remembering what he’s left atop the bed on the far wall, Virgil steps sideways to fill the doorway, and folds his arms. Duly admonished by the gesture, John pauses and clears his throat. “Right. Okay. You, um. You have something of mine.” His smile is a little weak, as he offers the reminder, “Show of good faith?”

Virgil’s resolutely unmoved by the request. “Haven’t got much of that, either.” He’s not sure in what reality his brother could reasonably expect that he would just get his little pill bottle back. Virgil has no intention of handing it over. He should’ve thrown it out. He’s _going_ to throw it out. He’s not sure why he hasn’t yet. Maybe without quite meaning to, waiting to call his dad, he’s been keeping the little pill bottle in evidence, a dramatic smoking gun to point to and righteously indict his brother. _Dad, look at what John_ did.

John winces. “No, I guess not.” He falls silent, then, but he makes no move to leave. Instead he lingers in the hallway, scuffing his feet on the bare wood floor. Down the hall, there’s the audible rattling of pots and pans and the sound of running water, as Gordon gets started in the small kitchen. “Okay,” he says, eventually. “All right, well—we’re just in the kitchen. If you do get hungry.”

Virgil’s already consigning himself to granola bars and Gatorade and an early night. Whatever Gordon can cook up out of the contents a stranger’s pantry in a cottage that probably hasn’t seen guests since the summertime—whatever it’s going to be, Virgil’s pretty sure he’s getting the better deal, anyway. “Yeah, fine.” He puts a hand on the door, as though he intends to close it as soon as the conversation’s over, and that he’d rather that happened sooner than later.

It’s hard to say whether John misses this particular cue, or whether he deliberately doesn’t take the hint, because he tries again. “I think he’s doing something with pasta,” he volunteers, as though that’s meant to be enticing somehow.

Virgil just grunts. “Make sure he writes down a list of what he uses, we’ll need to replace it all before we leave.”

John nods. “Already told him.”

But he hesitates again, seems to be trying to figure out something else to say. Virgil drums his fingers pointedly on the doorframe, starting to get impatient. Before he can make some curt, offhandedly cruel remark to get his brother to take the hint and leave, John clears his throat and looks up.

“…can I ask you something?”

Clearly John’s been hanging around for some reason, and if he’s willing to leave without managing to get his drugs back, then it’s maybe not the reason Virgil had anticipated. Whatever it is, this question might be part of it. Virgil manages to mostly stifle an impatient sigh, leans against the door frame again. “What?”

“Why’d you bring him?” He pauses, and then adds, very unnecessarily, “Gordon, I mean.”

Virgil doesn’t have an immediate answer. There’s the truth, obviously, but he’s reluctant to offer it. It’s just exactly what he’d told Scott, so many days ago, though in hindsight it still seems like a naive, idealistic proposition. Getting Gordon and John to make nice, after two years of poison and misery. The fact that it seems to be happening is beside the point entirely, considering the circumstances that have brought it about. “Well, it wasn’t to help stage an intervention for _your_ stupid ass, that’s for damn sure.”

This time John sighs, possibly starting to get a little exasperated in his own right. “No, obviously not. Because _you_ didn’t know there was anything going on with me. And I’m really starting to think you wouldn’t have.”

Virgil balks a bit at that, even at the same time that it needles at the suspicion it might be true. “I might’ve—”

“No,” John cuts him off, and suddenly it’s apparent that this semblance of humility—the whole encounter so far has had a vague air of contrition about it, as though John’s sheepish and apologetic—has been something of an act. That same insufferable perspicacity from earlier is coming back into play, and Virgil feels his back teeth grit together, even as John shakes his head to emphasize his point. “No,” he repeats. “Because I wouldn’t have fucked up, that first time, if you hadn’t brought Gordon. Friday night. You got into town, you came to pick me up after class, and you told me that you’d brought _Gordon_. And I _hated_ you for that. For bringing him to Boston. As soon as you said it, I just hated that you’d done it. It ruined everything. I double-dosed myself, because I needed something to help me cope, because _you_ had the nerve to show up with _Gordon_.”

It’s not entirely clear if John’s angling towards an interpretation of events where this is all Virgil’s fault—Virgil’s not sure if this is a thing drug addicts just _do_ ; blaming other people for their own fuckups—but he’s starting to feel defensive. “Because it’s about damn time you two stopped acting like idiots about each other! That was all I wanted, just for you two to fucking talk it out. None of this other bullshit— _your_ other bullshit—was supposed to come up. It’s not _my fault_ —”

“I’m not _saying_ it’s your fault. I’m just trying to—”

Virgil’s not sure why he feels like this point needs to be driven home so hard, but it doesn’t stop him from interrupting, disregarding whatever excuse his brother might try to make, and pressing on, “Yeah, no. I’m not interested in any of your bullshit justifications. This is on _you_ , John. _You_ did this, and—”

“ _I know_!”

And that shuts Virgil up, immediately, because John’s just yelled at him, and Virgil can’t remember if John’s _ever_ yelled at him. If he has, it hasn’t been since they were children. But his brother’s voice has risen suddenly, sharply, and broken just a little. It startles them both—and probably Gordon, too, because the kitchen isn’t that far away and there’s an audible clatter of pots and pans in response—and brings sudden brightness to his brother’s eyes, points of high colour to his cheeks as he flushes, upset and embarrased by the outburst. He swallows and manages to muscle past some swell of emotion, mastering his voice as he repeats, “I _know_ that. Virgil, _Jesus_. Do you honestly think I blame anyone else for what I’ve done? At least Gordon had peer pressure and the fact that he was _seventeen_ and an _idiot_ for an excuse. All _I’ve_ got is the fact that I’d rather slowly kill myself than have to cope with failure. D'you _really_ think I don’t know how badly I’ve fucked up?”

This isn’t the first time Virgil’s heard one of his brothers say the words “kill myself”, and the sensation is astonishingly familiar. There’s a sudden, icy clench of fear around his heart, and a dizzying sense of unreality. Now, more than ever before, he feels like he’s standing across from a stranger, because John—his big brother, brilliant and bright and quietly indomitable—isn’t supposed to be like this. Virgil’s voice has gotten caught in the back of his throat and he has to take a deep breath to try and salvage it, before he can manage to stammer, “John—”

But John’s not about to be interrupted. “I thought I could talk to you. Everyone _else_ always does. I thought—if you came out to Boston, and we just—I thought I could find a way to tell you what happened. What I did. I thought you’d listen, and maybe you’d know how to help, and— _God_. I’m not trying to _justify_ anything I’ve done, I’m just trying to explain why I did it…and you won’t even let me do that.”

Virgil swallows, hard, and tries again, “John, listen, I—”

“No.” And there’s no volume in his voice anymore, nothing left but weariness and defeat, and a faint, heartbreaking note of injury. It still stops Virgil mid-sentence. These flashes and flares of temper never seem to last, they seem to cost John more energy than he can sustain—even now, when he’s gone and slipped back into the habit that’s been killing him, slowly or otherwise. “I don’t want to hear it, Virgil. Just—I guess I’m just lucky Gordon’s here. I don’t think you could’ve helped me. I kinda feel like you don’t _want_ to.”

“John,” Virgil protests immediately, though it plays across his conscience like a knife on glass, makes the muscles in his back tighten with sudden guilt, for the way he’d wished this could be someone else’s problem. “No, John, that’s not it, I just—”

John’s not listening, not that Virgil can blame him. “I’m going to go talk to Gordon. Night, Virgil.”

Virgil doesn’t try to say anything else.


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

> Dear Scott,  
>    
>  I know you think therapy is bullshit, so as a caveat before I get started, I think it might just be that therapy is bullshit for YOU.  
>    
>  I can't remember if you said that, actually. So I don't know if that's actually true or not, but I could see how you would think so. You, specifically. Therapy really doesn't seem like your deal. All talk/no action. But it's been pretty good for me. I'm starting to think it would be pretty good for everybody else in this stupid family, because in the absence of real, actual therapists, it seems like people always come to ME. Turns out I'm not always good for it.  
>    
>  Anyway, my therapist says that sometimes when things are really shitty and for whatever reason I can't actually talk to the person I want to talk to, I should just talk to them anyway. Just write a letter. Don't send it or anything, just write it. Actually, I get the idea that it's kind of important NOT to send it. She says I should burn it, if I think that would be cathartic. Or just seal it up and not look at it for like a year or something and come back to it later on. I've burned a few letters to Mom. I wrote one to Dad that I actually wound up sending, for Father's Day. There's a couple for you that I've got sealed up and stuck in the back of my calculus textbook. I guess you're never gonna know about those, because you're never gonna know about this one, either.  
>    
>  So, Spring Break.  
>    
>  I don't need to tell you how it all shook out, because you're never going to actually read this, so long story short: John's a drug addict.  
>    
>  I mean like a real actual legitimate DRUG ADDICT, with a drug addiction, which is an addiction to drugs.  
>    
>  I can't seem to write that out in a way that makes it make sense.  
>    
>  Maybe that's the problem? Because I still can't even believe that. He said it's been a year and a half. He's been like this for a year and a half and no one ever noticed. I thought I was keeping an eye on everybody, but this just came out of nowhere. I had no idea there was anything going on with him.  
>    
>  I guess you were right. I guess that's something I should put down in black and white, here and now, because you were right. This is not a fun spring break, it's a really shitty spring break. I've ruined three spring breaks for three separate people, but the scarier thought is what could have happened if I hadn't come out here. Or if I'd come out here without Gordon. You were wrong about that part, thank fuck I brought Gordon. Gordon's the one who figured out what's going on, which is that John is a drug addict with a drug addiction.  
>    
>  I don't want to talk about the details, I just want to talk about how it all feels. It feels awful and surreal and terrifying and like it shouldn't be happening and like we're doing all the wrong things to try and deal with it. He nearly overdosed on Friday night. I don't know how that works. I don't know if there's a hard line there, if you can have an ALMOST-overdose. It seems to me like you either go over that line or you don't. I don't know. We should've gone to the hospital, but he didn't want to and I didn't know what to do and Gordon seemed to think we could just keep an eye on things and ride it out. So I guess that's what we did but it still feels wrong that we did it. I should have called an ambulance but I called Gordon instead. I just didn't know what it was. I didn't think it was drugs.  
>    
>  I don't know anything about drugs.  
>    
>  Gordon knows a lot about drugs. I guess John probably does too. John always knows a lot about everything. John sure acts like he's an expert about fucking around with Adderall. I guess one and a half years of fucking around with Adderall is enough to make an expert.  
>    
>  We threw out like a hundred pills and he still had more!  
>    
>  We got all the way out of Boston and John brought more fucking drugs!  
>    
>  And then he TOOK MORE FUCKING DRUGS!  
>    
>  And now he's all wired up again, and it's like I can't unsee it. Now that I know the reasons, it changes everything I thought I liked about him. I hate the way it makes him act. I can't believe he did this.  
>    
>  We are two miles from the car and the car is six miles from a hospital and I don't even know how an ambulance could get out here if we needed one and I still don't know that we won't need one, because he took more of his stupid fucking drugs.  
>    
>  I don't know. I hate how much I don't know about any of this. I want Dad. He'd be furious, but he'd know what to do. He'd just fix everything and we wouldn't be stuck out here in the middle of fucking nowhere, watching John fucking crash again.  
>    
>  I wish YOU were here. You'd be better than Dad, even. I don't know what you know about drugs and I don't know what you know about John, but maybe you'd know what we should do. I really just want to call and tell you what happened, but mostly I just wish this wasn't my problem.  
>    
>  It shouldn't be my problem.  
>    
>  It's not fucking fair. I don't really HAVE any major problems. I keep on top of all my shit. Sometimes it seems like the only problems I ever have in my life are other people's fucking problems.  
>    
>  He's supposed to be my brother, he's not supposed to be my problem.

* * *

* * *

  _art via the marvelous and talented[con-affeto-kiko](http://con-affetto-kiko.tumblr.com/)_

_[(click for fullsize)](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/182024965950799872/355576586688528394/Heavenward_Letter.jpg) _

* * *

  
The pen blots ink on the page as Virgil writes the last word, a smudge of ink that happens because his hand has frozen, in the act of the same realization that came with the writing.  
  
_He's not a problem, he's my brother._  
  
He's written his way through all the fear and frustration, poured his heart out into Scott's absence, and gotten down to the bedrock of a hard, immutable truth. This is his brother, drugs or not. Actively tweaking or in withdrawal, either way, it's still John. Whether Virgil had been able to tell, and even now that he can, that doesn't change the fact that Virgil keeps shying away from actually helping him; from actually treating him like a person who _deserves_ his help. There's no excuse for that, and it's time he put a stop to it. Time he started to try harder.  
  
He closes his sketchbook, but leaves it on the top of the bed. He texts his father to let him know they've arrived safely at their destination, and as an afterthought, texts Scott to say the same. He doesn't tell either of them anything else; it's not his right, and it's not time yet. He leaves his phone on top of his sketchbook, and picks up the little aspirin bottle.  
  
It feels light and small in his hand, and the rattle of pills within it is hollow against all the empty space. It's far from full. It would be a fairly simple matter to take it to the bathroom and flush its contents down the toilet. Or to go outside and throw it into the sea. But he doesn't. John had asked him not to, and it's time he started actually listening to his brother. Instead he drops it back into his pocket, and goes to join his brothers in the kitchen.  
  
He probably owes each of them an apology.


	12. Chapter 12

The first thing he hears, as he carefully closes his bedroom door behind him, is the sound of his brothers’ voices, but he can’t quite make out what they’re saying. Virgil creeps closer, but pauses at the end of the hallway, looks down to make sure his shadow won’t give his presence away. He’s already been so careful to step near to the wall, to avoid any creaking floorboards, and now he pauses at the end of the corridor, just listening. His brothers are talking— _really_ talking, for the first time in years—and that merits a listen.

“—I don’t know _why_ he hated me. He _did_ , though. You were too little when we had him, you wouldn’t remember.”

“I remember fine! I was ten when he got put down. That’s not like, _little_ -little. Like, _Alan_ probably doesn’t remember, but I definitely do.”

“If you say so. I was fourteen. It’s probably horrible to say it, but it was kind of a relief. When Dad took him to get put to sleep, I mean.”

“ _Jesus_ , Johnny. He was just a poor little dog!”

“I don’t mean I was _happy_ that it happened. I was sorry when he got sick, and it sucked that there wasn’t anything we could do about it, money or not. Dad would’ve paid whatever it took to fix him. But I guess cancer’s pretty bad for dogs, sometimes.”

“I guess. I wish Dad hadn’t just taken him away, though.”

“He was suffering. Dad did the right thing. Also, he hated me.”

“I don’t think he _hated_ you. He was just a little guy, and he was a _good dog_. Anyway, dogs don’t hate people.”

“He barked every time I came in the room. He growled at me whenever it was my turn to feed him. He never let me pet him. He liked you and he liked Scott and he liked Mom, he was neutral about everybody else, and then he _hated_ me.”

“Sparky wouldn’t just hate you for no reason. You probably did something to him. Like you stepped on his paw or you kicked him on accident or you spooked him sometime.”

“Not that I ever remember.”

“Sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Hmm. Then it’s probably because you’re tall.”

“…what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, you’re _really tall_ , John.”

“…and?”

“Dogs _hate_ tall people.”

“That’s not true.”

“Is so.”

“That sounds like something made up by a short person. That sounds like something made up by a _specific_ short person.”

“Dude, I am not _short_ , I am _average_. I am _exactly_ average, I am five-ten, I am _normal_.”

“ _That_ sounds like something a short person would need to know.”

“Fuck off. _You’re_ the freak of nature at this table, buddy—you’re like, what, six-three? That is _unnatural_.”

“Six-two. And I _wasn’t_ that tall, when I was fourteen. I was still shorter than Dad, and Sparky liked Dad just fine. And he _loved_ Scott, and Scott was like half a foot taller than I was.”

“Then it was the whole soulless ginger thing, probably.”

“Don’t start.”

“No, I bet that was it, though! Why else would he have _only_ hated you, then?”

“Dogs are colourblind. And he loved Mom.”

“That was _Mom_ , though. Everybody loved Mom. He was her dog.”

“…yeah. Maybe that was why. She was gone, and I was a pale imitation.”

There’s a long silence, then, the sort that falls whenever their mother gets mentioned. It’s not sad, necessarily. It’s just the sort of quiet, melancholy acknowledgment of her memory that has to happen, whenever she comes up in discussion. It’s a natural break in the conversation, and Virgil should be figuring out a non-awkward way to make his entrance, when there’s a pointed cough from the kitchen, and—

“You gonna eat any more?”

There’s a pointed silence.

“…I really, um. I really think I’ve eaten enough of…of that.”

“C'mon, it’s Grandma’s tuna casserole! It’s a midwestern classic. It tastes like _America_.”

Gordon’s unique among their family for his fond nostalgia for their grandmother’s cooking. Everyone else seems to have grown up and learned better, but Gordon’s palate has never been what’s best described as discerning. Virgil’s sympathetic, right up until the moment his older brother attempts to throw him under the bus.

“We should save some for Virgil.”

Gordon scoffs at this. “ _Screw_ Virgil. He’s _supposed_ to be a vegetarian, anyhow. And I put, like, four cans of tuna in there.”

Technically, though no one’s asked, Virgil considers himself more of a pescatarian. Not enough of a pescatarian for Grandma’s tuna casserole, but the point stands.

“…yeah, you did that.”

“Protein! You need to put some weight back on, man. You’re _kind of_ a goddamn scarecrow right now. What d'you weigh, Johnny?”

Virgil winces. He’s pretty sure his guess would’ve been a good one. John’s gotten _alarmingly_ thin. He’s probably down to around a hundred and forty pounds, if that. Thin enough that he just has to _know_ it’s unhealthy. There’s a point at which it’s just a mathematical fact.

But there’s an embarrassed silence and John’s eventual admission is a reluctant, “I don’t know.”

Gordon’s undissuaded. “Less than _me,_ though, probably. Yeah, for _sure_. We gotta work on that.”

“I guess.”

“No, we _really_ do. It’s not hard, though. Or it shouldn’t be, anyway. Your body wants it, so that’ll help. Couple extra meals per day. Lots of eggs. Peanut butter. Cheese. Avocados. Nice whole grains. Hell, find out what exactly _Virgil_ eats in a given day. If _he_ can get jacked as fuck on a _vegetarian_ diet, then _you_ can put on about twenty odd pounds eating whatever the hell you want.” There’s the sound of something sliding along the tabletop, and the suggestive tap of a wooden spoon against glass. “Lotsa good stuff in here. Carbs. Protein. Good ol’ healthy dose of fat. Sticks to your ribs, which is good, because if you took your shirt off probably I could count ‘em. We gotta get you fed up.”

“…this process doesn’t need to start with a lukewarm mess of mushy noodles, _wet_ tuna, and congealed mushroom soup.”

“And potato chips!”

“And stale, greasy potato shards.”

“ _God_ , you’re a snob. You are _literally_ malnourished, buddy, you can’t afford to turn down food.”

“Next time maybe offer me _food_ , then. I ate as much of that as an adult could reasonably be expected to eat. If I overdo it, I’ll make myself sick.”

“…yeah, okay. Well, we gotta go shopping tomorrow. Damn, though. I guess it’s probably too late to walk back to the car, even if we found a flashlight. What’s your timeline looking like vis-à-vis the comedown, Jaybird?”

Virgil’s a little alarmed by just how blunt the question is, how freely and casually Gordon talks about this whole state of affairs. But then, maybe that’s the difference between the two of them—that Gordon’s willing to talk about it. Virgil can’t quite get there, the whole thing still makes him nauseous and anxious and uncomfortable. The terminology of it all— _withdrawal_ and _crash_ and _comedown_ —still feels foreign in his brain, and he feels fake and false when he tries to use these words the same way his brothers do, as though he understands what they mean.

But for as uncomfortable as it is for him, just listening to the conversation, the conversation itself is almost pleasant—sociable and friendly and probably the most civil of the interactions Gordon and John have had since spring break started. Of everything in the world his brothers could bond over, their mutual experience with drugs is the absolute last thing in the world Virgil would have expected. Nevertheless, instead of interrupting, he finds himself leaning against the wall in the hallway, just to continue listening in. Without quite realizing it, he’s pulled the little pill bottle out of his pocket and holds it cradled in the palm of his hand. He turns it, end over end, too slowly and carefully for the pills to so much as rattle against the plastic.

“Well. In _theory_ , it’s a twelve-hour dose, the capsules kick in slower and last longer than the tablets do, and coming off them is a little easier. In _theory_ I should be good until about 3AM. But it’s hard to say, none of it really works the way it used to. It’s only been four hours, and I’m already tired. Tolerance, I guess.”

“Mm. What’s the most you’ll take in a day?”

“I try not to take more than forty miligrams as about an average, but that number keeps creeping upward. I’ll go as high as sixty if it’s a really big day, but with the awareness that I’ll regret it. It depends on what I need to do. The XR works if I know it’s going to be a long day, but if it’s also mostly just busywork. There’s one or two classes that are hard to handle if I haven’t taken something. I _know_ I can’t give presentations sober.”

“Shit.” There’s something almost like awe in Gordon’s tone, almost as though he’s impressed. “You’ve got a _habit_ , hey?”

John’s answering laugh is dry. “More of a regimen by this point, honestly. Habits are for children. It’s—Christ, it’s going to sound terrible to say it, but at first…at first it was like a puzzle, it was just a problem to solve. Fine-tuning what worked and what didn’t. The fact that it worked _at all_ was what convinced me. Everything got so much easier.”

“…I still don’t understand what was _hard_ , I guess. Like, John, you’re a goddamn genius. I’m pretty sure that’s, like, _written down_ somewhere. You were at KSU for four years and came out of it with…uh…with something—”

“I have a Masters in Computer Science.”

“ _Right_. And you got _that_ without even breaking a sweat.”

“— _um_.”

“—or, well, that was what it looked like, anyhow. Jesus, Johnny, take a damn compliment.”

“Yes, _thank you_ for failing to notice that I took college level courses all throughout the last two years of high school, and then busted my ass doing a combined degree at KU for five straight years.”

The incredulity in the protest is enough to hammer home just how disconnected John and Gordon were, during that period of time. It only stands to reason—all the years John spent studying were years that Gordon spent swimming. Virgil remembers seeing both of them, from space in between. He remembers getting up early to drive Gordon to practice, and passing the door of John’s room, catching his big brother still awake, still staring at whatever essay or paper was due.

“Jaybird, whatever the hell your overacheiving ass was doing at Kansas State, if you weren’t doing it at the deep end of a lap pool, there’s no way I was gonna notice much of _any_ of it.”

“ _Clearly_ not, if you thought I was at Kansas _State_. I was at the University of Kansas. You had a few swim meets at the pool there.”

“…did I?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Johnny, I don’t know if I can accurately articulate just how many goddamn pools I’ve been in over the past decade, but it is a _lot_. I don’t think numbers even _go_ that high.”

“Numbers go pretty high.”

“Well, I’ve been in a _lot_ of fucking pools.”

“Regular pools too, I’m assuming.”

“Ha _ha_. Jeez, you’re just a regular goddamn comedian when you’re tweaking, hmm? Back it up though—you were at my swim meets?”

“If they were at KU, I was. Tried to be, anyway.”

“I _totally_ don’t remember.”

“Well, then maybe I waited around to watch someone else’s jackass little brother swim from one end of the pool to the other a few dozen times. But Grandma used to let me know whenever you were going to be up in Lawerence, and if I had time, I’d try to be around to watch. I saw you at least a few times. Probably I waved.”

“…huh! Why didn’t you ever say hi?”

“Didn’t I?”

“Not that I remember.”

“I suppose that sounds like me. I mean, realistically I was probably busy. If I had time to stop by, it would’ve been just to watch you race, and I wouldn’t have cut class on your account. You started getting really serious about swimming at about the same time I started getting really serious about school.”

“I guess those were a few years when we were _both_ pretty goddamn busy. 'Cuz, what, you never took a year off after high school, did you?”

“No, I only had that one summer after graduation. And I was already talking to the Dean of Engineering before the my freshman year started, I’d been tapped for KU since I was about fifteen. Dad kind of fast-tracked the whole thing for me. That was fine. I was excited to start.”

This is something Virgil hadn’t ever considered, but of course it’s true. He’s sitting on the floor in the hallway by this point, and there’s no way he’s about to interrupt his brothers. They’re giving him too much to think about, too much to remember.

Scott had taken a year off, after high school. He’d traveled overseas for a few months, spent some time in England, but had spent the bulk of his time at home in Kansas, volunteering with the Red Cross during the peak of tornado season. It’s Virgil’s private and personal opinion that in a lot of ways Scott’s the best of the five of them, but it had never been more apparent than when he’d spent that summer with the Red Cross. The work had been hot and harrowing and hard and _heroic_ , and Scott had been happy, in a way Virgil hadn’t ever seen before, and hasn’t again since. When it was his turn, Virgil had attempted to pattern his own gap year after Scott’s—spent some time in Germany, built a few houses in Sierra Leone with Habitat for Humanity—although his year had also been a quieter, more revelatory sort of period, when he’d come to realizations about the state of his own mental health, and had taken the appropriate actions to manage it. In the end, his year off had been just as good for him as Scott’s had been. He’d been glad for his father’s insistence upon it.

But apparently it hadn’t quite been mandatory. Their father’s reasons for vigorously suggesting that his boys take a gap year are good ones, but it’s another truth about Jeff Tracy that he’s almost always willing to negotiate. John’s exactly the sort of person who could’ve made a compelling case for his academic career, made the suggestion that all he would’ve opted to do was academic in nature anyway. So John had gone straight from high school to Kansas University, where he’d continued to achieve the same standard he’d set during high school.

In retrospect, John’s academic endeavours have probably always been about as intense as Gordon’s athletic achievements ever were. The back of Virgil’s skull knocks lightly against the wall as he tilts his head back, and reflects once again on just how much his brothers have in common. And just how long its taken the pair of them to see it.

Gordon seems to be coming to a similar realization about the past eight years of John’s life. “Christ, you just didn’t _stop_ , did you?”

John seems to be coming around to the same belief Virgil’s always held, about what he has in common with Gordon. “Well, neither did you.”

“Kinda seems like it’s been to your detriment, Johnny. Kinda seems like you could’ve done with the break. Scotty and Virg both took a gap year. Hell, I took one too, it just didn’t happen til after the games.”

“Yeah, because _your_ year off was such a sterling example.”

In the hallway, Virgil’s holding his breath. This is a danger zone, this is something he doesn’t know if his brothers can talk about in a civil fashion. It’s a secret about Gordon that he doesn’t regret anything he did after the Olympics. It’s a secret about John that he’d been hurt by it, in a way that was more personal than Gordon would ever have realized.

There’s another long silence.

“…do we wanna talk about this _now_?” The caution in Gordon’s tone is cause for hope. “Because J, I’m down to hash out the facts and figures of what that year _was_ —what I did versus what you only _think_ I did, versus how it all hit the wall—but I kinda feel like we got a good thing going, in the here and now. I kinda feel like if we’re gonna talk, we should talk about _you_. Y'know, before the fog rolls back in. Might not get another chance.”

“…yeah. Yeah, I suppose that’s probably wise.” There’s a weak, lightly sardonic chuckle from John. “It wasn’t _you_ I wanted to talk to, this week. I hated it, when you showed up, and I hated what you did to me. And this morning I think I hated _you_ a little bit. But I guess I might be lucky that you came.”

“It’s been good,” Gordon hazards, delicately skirting the conversation away from just why exactly John’s lucky to have him. He corrects himself hastily, “I mean—like, just this bit. I don’t mean the weekend so far, _that’s_ gonna go down in history as one of the shittier experiences I’ve had in this family. But these last couple hours. Talking to you. That’s been cool.”

“Yeah. It has.”

The silence that falls then almost feels like it could be the right moment for Virgil to haul himself off the floor and make an entrance. Someone a little less intensely tuned to his brothers and their emotions—someone less used to being in the middle—would’ve taken this lull in the conversation as an opportunity. Virgil, by some deeply ingrained instinct, knows that this particular silence represents the brink of something new, an edge. Whatever gets said next, whoever says it—it’s going to matter.

His big brother’s voice is weary, a little bit raw, when he finally speaks.

“This is the first time I’ve felt like maybe I might be able to do this. Like I might be able to stop. And I recognize that it’s ironic to say that, when I couldn’t even manage forty-eight hours without a relapse, but—”

Gordon’s quick to excuse him. “It happens, Johnny. It wasn’t your fault. It’s not the end of the line.”

“…that’s—I mean, Gordon, I get what you’re trying to say, but I don’t think it’s true. I _know_ it isn’t. I knew what I was doing. There was plenty of intent there, it wasn’t just that I couldn’t help myself. We drove for three hours before I had the window to actually take the damn pill, and it was just all I could think about that whole time. I just kept coming up with reasons. There’s _always_ a reason. It’s…it’s just exactly what you said, on the walk out here. It’s always just one. It’s always just that one choice, and somehow I always choose wrong. But the reasons—they always seem like such good reasons. I had so many good reasons. This was one of them. Being able to keep my head together and have a conversation. And I _can’t_ regret it, because we’re actually talking. You aren’t who I thought I wanted to talk to, but I’m…I’m glad we’re talking. _Christ_ , but I’ve needed somebody to talk to.”

There’s guilt sitting like lead shot in the pit of Virgil’s stomach.

That manic edge has faded away from John, and possibly this is some sort of sweet spot, as far as the half-life of the drugs left in his system can be considered. He’s articulate, but not overly verbose. He’s being forthright, at least as near as Virgil can tell, but he’s not just saying whatever comes into his head. He sounds, impossibly, like the brother Virgil remembers, like the version of John he’s been missing, the version he’d assumed was gone. Some sort of unlikely alchemy has occured between his personality and the drugs he’s come to depend upon to function, and suddenly John’s not a stranger anymore. He’s not a problem to solve, but a person who needs help—who’s needed, more than anything, just someone to talk to.

And before now, Virgil realizes he hasn’t been willing to listen.

It’s probably time he did something about that.


	13. Chapter 13

When he was eight years old, Virgil broke his brother’s arm.

In the litany of injuries and illnesses suffered by five boys on their five respective journeys from childhood to adulthood (or near enough, at least), a broken arm actually rates fairly low. Nowhere near as frightening as the time Scott’s appendix had burst in the middle of a camping trip out in Yellowstone—or even the time John’s had nearly followed suit, only a year later. Not even remotely as gory as the time Gordon had managed to lop one of his fingers off, or even the time that Alan had broken _his_ arm, badly enough that the bone had pierced the skin.

But none of those occasions had been Virgil’s fault.

It had been summer, and he and John had both still been kids—eight and ten, respectively. There’s always been a sort of social ebb and flow between the five of them—different duos and trios represented over the relative courses of their childhoods versus adolescences versus young adulthoods. There are three years between Scott and John, two between John and Virgil, two between Virgil and Gordon, and almost a full five between Gordon and Alan. Scott had been thirteen during this, his first summer home from boarding school, and he’d been moody and aloof, teenagerish and uninterested in the company of the nerdy little brother he’d left behind.

And so John, ten (but- _almost_ -eleven!), had been left abandoned by Scott and his newfound independence, to say nothing of his burgeoning maturity. Three years his elder, Scott had looked at John and decided he was a _child_ , and therefore child _ish_ and therefore _intensely_ uninteresting to a _teenager_. Scott came home for summer break, newly endowed with the right to his own room, and so Gordon had been bumped down to sharing a room with the baby, and in his place, John had been partnered with Virgil.

It had turned out that a two-year gap was much, _much_ more workable than a three-year gap. That all John wanted was someone who was still interested in model rockets and telescopes and the names of all of the stars in the clear Kansas sky. Someone who could still be enthused by questions of backyard science and engineering. For Virgil, at eight years old, this had been uncharted territory, a whole new world into which his brother could lead him, wide-eyed and wondering and rapt with attention.

Virgil appreciates it now, more than he had back then, the way his big brother had just _blossomed_ beneath the sudden interest, the realization that he could be a main character, and not just a sidekick—that he was an _older_ brother to three out of four his siblings, and that younger brothers had merits that outweighed any incidental nuisance they might present. That John could be to Virgil as Scott had been to John.

And it had been a good summer. A farmhouse summer, not a city-house summer, one of the summers of Dad’s long absences, off and away and spaceward. These were the summers that landed the five of them in the supplemental care of Grandma and Grandpa Tracy, in the farmhouse where Dad had grown up, in between great, sweeping wheat fields and the incredible blue of an endless sky. Mom and Grandma and the kitchen garden, tackled while Gordon and Alan splashed around in a kiddie pool on the lawn. Virgil and John, old enough to be permitted to wander and ramble, so long as Grandpa Grant was kept apprised of their movements, and that they checked in with him in the barn or the workshop, as a matter of prudence. And Scott, distant and remote and holed up in his room as often as not, lost to the onset of puberty and not worth the attempt at engagement.

The inciting incident, the day Virgil broke John’s arm, had been the fact that John didn’t believe it when Virgil said that Scott told him that you could flip a bike over by jamming a stick through the spokes of its front wheel. They’d gone round and round the hypotheticals for a while, a lazy afternoon spent lying in the grass beneath the tree with the treehouse and the tire swing, before they’d eventually (inevitably) come to the conclusion that the only way to be sure was to actually test the theory.

So, after duly apprising Grandpa Grant of their intended destination, if not their intended experiment, it had been out to the long strip of rough dirt road that ran between the fallow field behind the barn, and the neighbouring wheat field, belonging to the neighouring farm. A dried out irrigation ditch ran the whole length of one side of it, and a rickety post and rail fence still existed along about a thirty yard stretch on the opposite side. It had been John’s admission that, given that he’d been the one to insist upon the experiment, it was only fair that he be the one to ride the bike, even if he very easily could’ve compelled Virgil to be the guinea pig. But instead Virgil had dutifully selected a sturdy looking piece of wood from the trailed off end of the fence, and the necessary conditions for the experiment had been met.

What followed was predictable by the standards of common wisdom, and also answered a question that would have been easily and immediately answered if it had been put to their Grandpa Grant. But instead their answer had been John, scraped and bruised and screaming, curled up around a fractured forearm, and Virgil, on his hands and knees at his brother’s side, and _almost_ as frightened and upset, if not even a little bit hurt.

He remembers having the presence of mind to grab John’s bike instead of just running, and knowing for _sure_ that he needed to go and get help, that it wouldn’t do any good to stay with his brother, that he was too small to try and get him up off the ground and moving under his own power. Scott, sturdy and thirteen and apparently all grown up—or at least more grown up than any of the rest of them—would’ve known what do, wouldn’t have panicked and cried like Virgil had. Scott would’ve been confident enough, to say nothing of big and strong enough, to haul John up and get him on his feet, instead of leaving him hurt and alone and frightened, sobbing into the dry, gravelly dirt of an unused stretch of road between two empty fields.

He remembers riding faster than he’d ever ridden his own bike, even when John’s had acquired a newly warped front wheel. He remembers the way the tires had skidded in the dirt as he’d taken the corner up the drive to the workshop. He remembers being too out of breath and panicked to be able to explain what had happened, and that it had taken Grandpa’s big, rough hands steadying themselves on his shoulders before he’d been able to make it clear that John was hurt.

It hadn’t been further than about a quarter mile from the workshop to where he’d left John, but Grandpa Grant had been possessed of substantially more presence of mind than his eight-year-old grandson, and had immediately deposited him into the cab of the big green pickup truck, and gone rattling up the road.

Everything after that had gotten to be a bit of a blur. Virgil remembers how easily their grandfather had scooped John up, made him look small, even though he was nearly eleven and nearly half a foot taller than Virgil, if skinnier. He remembers getting back to the house with his brother sobbing the whole way, and being ushered out of the cab of the truck to make room for their mother. He remembers watching the truck pulling away up the long driveway, and then tearing out of his grandmother’s grip, running away and hiding himself away in the hayloft, wracked with anxiety and guilt and anguish at the thought of what he’d done.

John hadn’t come home again until late that night, long after Virgil had been retrieved, consoled, and put to bed. The light in the hallway and the sounds of soft voices had woken him, but he’d frozen beneath his blanket, stayed perfectly still on the opposite side of the room. He’d tried to hear what their mother was saying, as she turned down blankets and fluffed up pillows and just generally made a fuss, but her voice had been too soft for him to catch anything. He’d stayed just as still and quiet as he possibly could, practically holding his breath, until his mother had kissed John good night, and then gone, closing the door behind her.

Then the waterworks had started up again, and Virgil had curled up in the dark, freshly reminded of what he’d done and how badly his brother had been hurt because of it, and certain that John would just _hate_ him. He’d buried his face in his pillow and tried to keep quiet, waiting for his brother to fall asleep so that he could sneak out of the room and then out of the house and then run away forever, rather than live with the shame of having broken his big brother’s arm.

But that hadn’t happened. Instead there’d been a shuffle beneath the blankets on the other side of the room, and then the soft sound of bare feet, padding across the bare hardwood floor. Virgil remembers the shift of his mattress as his brother had climbed up onto the end of the bed and poked at his toes. He’d sat up, then, without much choice in the matter, and sniffled a tearful apology at his brother.

And all John had had to say, after solemnly accepting Virgil’s apology, was, “You were right about the stick.”

They’d stayed up far later than either of them should have, after such an emotionally taxing day, going through the particulars of what had happened, and just what exactly it was like to break one’s arm. The next morning had found the both of them asleep in Virgil’s bed, with the bright blue cast on John’s arm freshly decorated with a painstakingly drawn rocketship and a handful of stars, one or two planets—his little brother’s attempt to make amends. And things had been just fine after that.

* * *

 

[art by the lovely and wonderful lelelego](http://lelelego.tumblr.com/)!

* * *

 

So this is hardly the first time Virgil’s had to apologize to his brother.

But it’s fourteen years later, and he’s not eight years old anymore, even if he feels like it, standing awkwardly across the kitchen from his brothers, whose conversation has stuttered to a halt with his entrance, which was precisely what he’d been afraid of.

John and Gordon are sat at opposite corners of the kitchen table, two cleared plates still sitting atop it, as well as a square ceramic dish, still mostly full of Gordon’s tuna casserole. This looks just exactly the same as what their grandmother used to make, as anything made out of a suite of prepackaged ingredients probably would.

Before he can say anything—and thankfully, before _Gordon_ can say anything—John clears his throat and demonstrates the exact sort of insight that’s been so glaringly absent over the past couple days, as he asks, arch and appropriately superior, “Been listening long, Virgil?”

Virgil immediately feels his face heat up, but in a way it’s a relief to be called out for it—for something he’s done since he was a child. Eavesdropping. As an adult, he’ll sometimes even do it around strangers, with his headphones silent in his ears and his sketchbook open on his lap. Virgil’s just always had a habit of stationing himself casually in the proximity of Grown-Up conversations, pretending to be absorbed in his own task—legos or cars or crayons—and then listening in on discussions about things that didn’t concern him, protected from suspicion by the fact that no one had expected him to care about the subjects in question.

So he’d always thought, anyway. But John goes on, blithely and for Gordon’s benefit, “When he was six, he got his head caught in the banister because he was eavesdropping on Mom and Dad. It took an hour and a hacksaw to get him out and Scott thought it was the funniest thing that had ever happened.”

John’s not smiling, or at least not in an obvious way, but Gordon busts into a big, shit-eating grin and his brown eyes light up. “ _Did_ he now? Are there pictures? I bet he looked like a nerdy little twerp.”

“No, tragically neither of our parents were _that_ type of parent.”

“ _Damn_ , that’s a shame.”

“Isn’t it?”

That the pair of them are presenting a united front is still something of a novelty, but the truth is that this is mercy dressed up as cruelty, childish teasing to soften Virgil’s awkward entrance and to let him know that they’re willing to talk to him. It’s another thing they have in common that they both have every right to be annoyed with him, with his behaviour. Which still merits an apology, and it’s better to get that over and done with as soon as he can, because it’s clearly expected. Gordon even goes so far as to prompt, “Something you wanted, V-card?”

“Yeah,” he says, skirting around the kitchen counter and making his approach. He still stands awkwardly nearby, with the little white pill bottle still in hand, as he clears his throat. “Uh. Just—wanted to say sorry. For being kind of an ass, I guess. To, um. To both of you guys, but mostly to you, John. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—I should appreciate the fact that you’re trying. I probably can’t even imagine how hard this actually is.”

This is met with a few seconds of measured silence, as his brothers exchange a glance. But it doesn’t last long, and John nods his acknowledgment. “It’s been a rough weekend,” he offers, conciliatory.

Virgil shakes his head. “Rougher for you than it has been for me,” he points out, probably unnecessarily.

John shrugs. “I’m okay.”

“Are you, though?” Virgil pulls out the chair at the foot of the table, next to John and across from Gordon, and as far away as possible from the remaining half of their Grandmother’s tuna casserole. “Like, really?”

“Well, for _now_ , I am.” It’s impossible to miss it, when John’s eyes cut to the pill bottle in his hand. It’s an incongruously small object, to represent the elephant in the room, and Virgil can’t help it, when he curls his fingers around the bottle and he shifts, tucks it behind his arms as he folds them on the tabletop.

But before either of them can comment, Gordon interrupts, “Do _I_ get an apology?”

Virgil’s pretty sure he has less to apologize for, in Gordon’s case. Gordon has a documented history of flying off the handle, and of picking and choosing what offends him on a case-by-case basis. “Yeah, I’m sorry about how you’re a touchy little drama queen.”

It’s a good indicator that Gordon concedes the point when he reaches across the table and shoves the casserole dish in Virgil’s direction. “Make it up to me,” he instructs, and then tosses a fork to clatter into the empty space not packed by noodles, held together by gray, mushroomy goo, flecked with chunks of pink tuna.

The protest is immediate, automatic and visceral. Virgil recoils slightly in his seat and objects, “ _Dude_.” And remembers his most likely defense, and says “I’m a veg—”

Gordon cuts him off, even as John perks up beside him. “Last night you ate, like, _two_ pounds of lasagna, containing the tastiest ground up bits of _three_ separate animals. So clearly you’re not strict about it. _Also_ you’ve gotten jacked to _fuck_ over the course of the past year, and that shit doesn’t happen exclusively on soy and beans. So I’m not buying it, V. C'mon. It’s Grandma’s tuna casserole. Dig in, big guy.”

Out of the three of them, Gordon’s the only one who can _really_ cook. John, by his own admission, can’t and doesn’t. Virgil’s not sure what his brother’s diet has been like since he’s been at Harvard, but he’s willing to bet it’s been about ninety-percent whatever’s purchasable on a bee-line between the campus and his apartment. There’s probably a whole string of places at which John’s considered a regular, places that will have his order lined up on the counter before he even gets in the door, because it’s a truth about his big brother that he will happily eat the same thing, day in and day out.

For his own part, Virgil can manage the basics, and despite Gordon’s suspicions, is still _mostly_ a vegetarian. Pescatarian. He likes salmon and tilapia and tuna salad on crackers, and can be tempted by pretty much anything that ends up in sushi. If friends want to go out for burgers, he won’t necessarily kick up a fuss. Left to his own devices, he keeps to a fairly simple diet of pasta and rice, vegetable proteins and the aforementioned soy and beans. There’s been some supplementation with protein shakes and meal bars, just because it’s a necessary evil of the way he’s decided to bulk up, deliberately building muscle over the course of his college career.

But Gordon can _cook_. No one knows exactly where he came by the skill, or why he has such a particular knack for it, but it’s generally agreed that he’d started to learn at about the same time he’d started swimming competitively, and racking up a calorie deficit that occasionally equaled what one of his brothers might eat in an entire day. Just in terms of raw caloric efficiency, pasta has always been Gordon’s specialty. There’s a lot of variety in the pasta world, and Gordon’s a master of everything from alphabet soup down to baked ziti.

But the distance between their Grandpa’s lasagna and their Grandma’s tuna casserole is a yawning gulf, and Virgil’s not exactly enthused by the prospect of eating the latter. Gordon slides the casserole dish closer and Virgil cringes, and swallows past the gag reflex. “I’m…I’m good, actually.”

That makes John laugh, as much as John laughs at anything. It takes Virgil a minute to remember why, and he winces when he does. Apologizes again. “Uh. Shit, sorry. I wasn’t—”

“No, I know you weren’t.” There’s a pause and John shifts his chair slightly, turns so he’s facing Virgil rather than angled towards Gordon. “Eat it.”

“Um?”

Across the table, Gordon looks like he’s just been told it’s Christmas. John sticks to his guns. “You heard me.”

“I, uh, I really—” Virgil shakes his head. “No. No, thanks.”

“Said you were hungry, earlier.”

“Not _that_ hungry.”

“Our little brother made dinner. You’re being very rude.”

“ _You_ didn’t want to eat it either. Gordon says you’re actually _malnourished_ , Johnny, _you_ eat it.”

There’s a glint in John’s bright green eyes. “Oh, so you _were_ listening in?”

Elbows resting on the table, Virgil spreads his hands helplessly. “It’s a bad habit. What do you want me to say?”

John shrugs. “That you’d like to make amends, maybe.”

“How does that make amends? I don’t see what _you_ get out of me suffering through the consumption of _that_ mess.”

“Solidarity.”

“ _Solidarity_.” Virgil doesn’t bother to tone down the incredulity.

“For the record,” Gordon pipes up, irrepressibly cheerful as he leans rests his chin on his hands at the end of the table, still grinning, “—for the record, _I_ think it’s pretty good. Just like Grandma used to make!”

“For the record, I don’t think you checked the expiration dates on anything you put in there.”

Virgil pushes the casserole dish away. “Oh, cool. Cool! Well, all right, so, that’s great. If we have to take John to the hospital, at least _now_ it’ll just be for intestinal parasites. Awesome!”

“Oh, it’s _fine_.” Gordon rolls his eyes. “Jesus, and you call _me_ a drama queen.”

John scoffs lightly. “Well, he’s not wrong about that. You parked a defibrillator in the middle of my coffee table, because you were being a drama queen.”

“ _No_ , I parked a defibrillator in the middle of your coffee table because you were flirting with a goddamn drug overdose, and there was a legit chance that your _heart_ could’ve started fucking up. _Also_ , it’s in the bottom of my backpack.”

“ _Gordon_!”

“What? _Sorry_ for not wanting you to _die_ , Johnny.”

“You can’t just _steal things_!”

“Well, we’ll bring it _back_ , obviously. But I thought, hey, you’re in rough shape. You don’t wanna go to a doctor. Withdrawal is risky, sometimes. Better safe than sorry.”

Virgil’s not sure how he feels about this latest development, but John’s clearly exasperated. “I’m _fine_.”

There’s a telltale jut of Gordon’s chin, and across the table he’s folded his arms, leaned forward into the argument, as he disagrees, “You’re okay. _Ish_. Right now, you’re only okay because you re-upped on your damn drugs. You _are_ gonna crash again. It’s gonna be harder, because the half-life on what you took this second time is longer. You’re gonna be right back in withdrawal. And withdrawal isn’t something you dick around with, and we’re already playing it _real_ far from safe. So _yeah_ , John, there’s an AED in my backpack. If by some minuscule chance someone _else_ in your building needs the one I took, there’ll be another one on the next floor up or down. If _you_ need one—which is marginally more likely, and don’t you fucking forget it—then it’s here. I’ve got no problem with that. And if _you_ do—well, Johnny, what the fuck d'you think you’re gonna do about it?”

The notion that Gordon still thinks they need a defibrillator around has spiked Virgil’s anxiety, given him one of those sudden, startling jolts of realization, set him to anticipating the worst before anything’s even happened. He has to take a moment to remind himself that nothing’s true now that wasn’t true before, that the only difference is how much information he has, and that more information is always a good thing, even if he doesn’t like what he’s learned. He glances at John and finds that his older brother’s jaw has set, his eyes have narrowed slightly, and that he’s pulled himself up short of openly glaring at their little brother. It doesn’t feel like there’s about to be a fight, but it’s also starting to get difficult to tell.

They face off for a few more moments, before John breaks, looks away with a hard, heavy breath. “…Okay.”

But there’s steel in his voice as he says it, and something about his tone makes Virgil’s spine crawl, just a little. Without meaning to, he’s reclined away from the table, leaned back and away from the oncoming clash. He’s not sure just what it is he’s getting attuned to, that he’s already bracing himself for something to drop, some sudden _something_ to punch a hole through the conversation, as Gordon and John square up against each other, once again. Virgil’s adjunct to this whole situation, adjacent, an afterthought. He’s who John had wanted to talk to, but it’s becoming incredibly clear that he’s not who John had _needed_ to talk to, because that’s Gordon. It’s clearly, unequivocally Gordon, John’s equal and his opposite in so many ways.

Gordon seems equally aware of the fact that there’s something in the offing, and there’s a note of challenge in his tone as he echoes, “…Okay?”

It’s probably Virgil’s fault, when it happens, because he’s let himself grow complacent. The little white bottle of not-aspirin still sits on the table, and with John sitting beside him, it’s easily in his big brother’s reach. It happens before Virgil can even react, that John reaches over and plucks the little bottle off the table, closes his fingers neatly around it for a moment. “Okay,” he repeats, even as there’s the sudden scrape of Gordon’s chair across the floor, as he shoots to his feet, cursing. Virgil sits up straight, reflexively, but doesn’t know what to do.

But there’s no need for him nor Gordon to do anything, because all John does is set the bottle right back down, purposeful, in the center of the table, in reach and in clear view of all three of them. His hand doesn’t leave the top of it, and on the opposite side of the table, Gordon’s right on the edge of jumping him, and for a moment the three of them are just caught in an awful web of sudden, impenetrable tension.

And it breaks, abruptly, as John’s fingertips leave the pill bottle, and he eases back in his chair. “Okay,” John says—a third time, half to himself—and then looks up at Gordon, still standing at the end of the table. “We’re talking,” he says, and doesn’t even so much as _glance_ at Virgil, though there’s a magnetism to him as he speaks that’s almost hypnotic. “So let’s talk. I want to talk about how this is has gone, and how it’s going to go forward. I want to talk about what I’ve got, and what I can handle, and what I think needs to happen if this is going to work. We’ve been talking and that’s been good. I needed that. I need a little bit more. So if you’re going to let me talk—and if you’re going _listen_ —then you’ve gotta let me talk about the fact that I need one more hit. Just one, just one last time. If you’ll let me talk, I think I can convince you why I need that to happen, and why this’ll be the _only_ time it’ll ever _really_ be worth it.”

“You’ve gotta be fucking _kidding_ me,” Gordon answers, and there’s something almost like awe in his tone again, like he can’t quite believe what’s just happened. “John! Just— _Christ_ , Johnny, _no_! No, we—”

John cuts him off, “Will you please just let me talk? And will you listen? Whatever you think when I’m done, I’ll go with it. I swear. But please, give me a chance. It’s not fair that you two forced me into this. It’s not fair that it wasn’t my choice. God, it’s been so long since I did _anything_ that felt like it was _my_ choice. _Please_ , Gordon. Let me explain what I need. Please.”

There’s a heavy thud as Gordon drops back into his chair, shaking his head, disbelieving. He’s taken the lead through all of this, faced up against their older brother and his demons, and this is the first time Virgil’s seen a glimpse of Gordon, looking overwhelmed.

But then, echoing their brother, he just shakes his head again, and says, “…Okay.”

Neither of them ask Virgil if he wants to hear what comes next.


	14. Chapter 14

Virgil clears the table silently, as Gordon and John sit on opposite sides of it. He moves the half-full dish of tuna casserole onto the kitchen counter, clears away two emptied plates, and two empty glasses of what was probably just water. The table seats four, and John’s shifted from his chair to sit in Virgil’s recently vacated place at the foot of it. The little white pill bottle sits equidistant between him and his little brother. It’s just an object. It’s not like it’s mere presence has the power to do any harm, and it’s obvious that John’s put it in the middle of the table because he wants it to be the focal point of the discussion. His hands rest atop the pale blue check of the tablecloth, folded, neutral. Across from him, Gordon’s crossed his arms, tense, defiant.

 

 

 

 

Gordon sighs, shakes his head to himself. “Okay,” he says again, though none of this is okay, and Virgil doesn’t know if he can stand to hear the word another time. “You wanna talk, then let’s _talk_ , John.”

“All right.”

“What do you wanna do?”

“I’d like to take another thirty milligram dose of the XR. Not now. Later. Tomorrow.”

“Just one?” Gordon drawls sarcastically.

John shrugs. “You know how it is.”

Gordon might. Virgil doesn’t. There’s not much distance between the dining room and the kitchen, but there’s a counter in between the two spaces, and the natural barrier is enough to help Virgil feel a little bit apart, disengaged. He’s not sure what he has to add to the discussion, and there are chores to be done. Methodically, he hunts down some tinfoil to wrap up the leftovers.

“All right, _well_ —so, up front, the answer is ’ _no_ ’. Like, just to clarify. Just so you’re aware. But since you made such a big deal about it…why?”

“Lots of reasons.”

The fridge is empty of anything but an open box of baking soda, until it’s joined by the wrapped up casserole, which will linger in the fridge over the course of their time here, and be thrown out the day they leave. As he closes the fridge door, he finds that Gordon’s already scrawled the beginnings of a shopping list on a notepad stuck to the freezer door, made an accounting of what he’s taken from the pantry.

“So name one.”

This isn’t the first time John’s talked about reasons. It’s possible it’s the first time that he’s getting a fair hearing, a chance to speak and be listened to. Even if Gordon seems like he’s already made up his mind, John still starts to explain, “Because so far none of this has been my choice. This is something you’ve _made_ me do, and even if I know I should, it still feels like I’m being forced. Deep down I still feel like this is your fault, that this is something _you’ve_ done to me. Not something I’m trying to do myself.”

Virgil turns on the water in the sink, lets it heat up as he squeezes bright blue soap onto a dishcloth and starts to go to work on the dishes. There aren’t many, but they still need to be done, and Virgil feels like this is a better use of his time than trying to contribute to a discussion that stresses him out as much as this does.

“You do _want_ to quit?”

There’s a long silence. And then, “Well. I don’t want to die.”

Virgil blames the soap on his hands for the way a plate slips through his fingers and clatters loudly in the kitchen sink. “Sorry,” he says, when his brothers look up, and then drops his gaze back to the sink and the dishes.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

John sighs. “Yes, obviously I want to quit. But—this? The way this has gone so far? This isn’t me, quitting. This is you and Virgil, deciding that the best way to make this happen is to _force_ me to stop. And—I mean, I keep trying to tell myself that you’re both just trying to do what you think is best, but the way this is happening has just been _brutal_.”

There were only two plates and a handful of utensils and a single pot to wash, and Virgil just hasn’t got an appetite any longer, so the dishes are rinsed and drying on the dish rack, but he doesn’t want to leave the kitchen just yet. He wrings out his dishcloth and folds it up, starts to wipe down the counter top. There’s a painful prickle of guilt down the ridge of his spine, at the emphasis John puts on the word _brutal_.

Gordon doesn’t seem especially moved, still leaning back in his chair with his arms folded. Maybe the years he’s spent being callously, entirely indifferent to John’s general state of being have inoculated him against any pain and suffering on their older brother’s part, but Virgil likes to hope that isn’t true. He likes to hope that Gordon just _sounds_ cold, as he says, “Coming down is tough, Johnny. Gonna have to do it sometime.”

“I know. I’m not trying to avoid it, I just want to push it back a little. I’m just saying—if it had been my choice, I would’ve tried to brace myself, a bit. As much as I could, anyway. Friday night happened, and I crashed. And I just…I don’t know if I can explain how that feels, but being pushed into it is one of the worst things that’s ever happened to me. I woke up—god, I can’t even remember—Saturday. Saturday afternoon. And I just—I didn’t know what was happening. You were both gone, I think I only woke up because one of you left my window open and I was freezing cold and _starving_ —but even then I could barely get out of bed. When I finally did, I’d just completely lost eighteen hours of my life.”

John trails off and shakes his head. And he sounds regretful, as he says, “There were things I’d meant to do with that time. I usually call Alan on Saturdays, just to see how he’s doing, help him with his homework, not that he ever actually _needs_ it—anyway. I missed a few calls from him and I haven’t been able to call back. I don’t know if he was worried about me, or what he thought. I didn’t mean to ignore him.”

There’s a few moments of silence. Gordon rubs his nose.

Gordon rubs his nose whenever he feels guilty about something. John probably doesn’t know this, but Virgil does, from a long adolescence spent making mischief in Gordon’s company. The bridge of Gordon’s nose is crooked, broken a long, long time ago, in an incident whose details have never been publicly disclosed. Only three people know how Gordon’s nose _actually_ got broken, and they’re Gordon, Virgil, and Kayo. Everyone else believes that Gordon ran face first into a sliding glass door. Virgil knows that Gordon had made the mistake of saying, “I bet you don’t _really_ know jiu-jitsu” to their foster sister. He’d lied about the subsequent martial arts demonstration to spare Kayo from getting into trouble, but ever since then, the broken bridge of his nose has been the seat of Gordon’s biggest tell. He doesn’t have many, but Virgil knows what he’s looking at.

Eventually, Gordon admits, “I talked to him. To Alan. He called on Saturday, _way_ early in the morning. You were just, like, _flat_ out, there was no way I was gonna wake you. So I told him we were hanging out over spring break, and that I’d let you know he’d called. Uh. Sorry. I should’ve told you that. Slipped my mind.”

John seems more relieved than affronted, learning this. “As long as somebody talked to him. I didn’t—I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings. He worries a lot that I don’t have time for him, so I always try and make sure that I do. He’s all alone back home, and sometimes I think he really hates it.” John pauses and swallows and his voice is quiet as he says, “I’d like to call him, tomorrow. If I can be—if I can take something. Because I can’t, otherwise. I’ll be too out of it. But if I could just call and apologize for missing him. I really didn’t mean for that to happen. I’ve talked to him every weekend since I’ve been out here. That’s a reason. I think it’s a pretty good reason.”

The counter top was clean before Virgil started wiping it down, but it’s _spotless_ now, as he drapes the dishcloth over the kitchen faucet to dry. He still doesn’t quite want to rejoin his brothers at the table just yet. For lack of anything else to do, he starts idly opening cupboards. And he finds himself thinking about Alan and John.

It’s funny, the way he and his brothers partner up, the way those alliances shift and change. Virgil’s not sure just when exactly Alan latched onto John, but there’s just no other comparable precedent of outright hero-worship anywhere else in the family. Virgil admires Scott, but Alan _adores_ John, has patterned his interests and ambitions exactly after John’s truest passions. Alan’s inherited all of the astronomy books and the star charts and the telescope that had demolished John’s middle school sleep schedule. Alan inherited John’s computer, a massive, ridiculously powerful custom rig that John had built carefully over the course of his high school career, and then swapped for a small, sleek little laptop when the time came to head to college. Virgil’s not surprised to find that Alan and John keep in touch—but it reminds him just how much he doesn’t see, of his brothers’ private lives.

And he doesn’t really want to, but he finds himself agreeing with John. Alan’s a pretty good reason.

But Gordon doesn’t seem to think so. The blond shifts uncomfortably in his chair, leans forward, puts his elbows on the table. “I don’t—mmm. Johnny, I kinda don’t know how I feel about you talking to Allie while you’re high. Doesn’t that…like, _shit_ , John. He’s our baby brother, he’s only fifteen. Doesn’t that bother you?”

John shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like I haven’t done it before. It’s—and it’s like—not _high_ -high. I hate that word. I don’t get—I mean, I guess I _do_ get pretty spun up, but not to talk to Alan. I’m always about like this, when I talk to Alan. There’s a…it’s like…it’s like the Goldilocks zone. There’s a place where I’m just right, where I’m _normal_. Not too high and not too low. Almost like now, only I’m going to start _really_ hitting the downslope pretty soon—but—like this. Like the way we’ve been talking, Gordon. Just like that. It’s good. He’s such a good kid. I like talking to Alan. Sometimes I think it’s the only thing I ever look forward to anymore.”

Of course, the thing to remember about John and Alan is that the adoration is probably entirely mutual. Brothers probably aren’t supposed to pick favourites, but when there are four to choose from, in some ways it’s almost necessary.

Virgil pulls open a cupboard door and finds the small pantry. He browses through it, just as a matter of idle curiosity. It’s mostly odds and ends, but as he shuffles aside assorted dried goods, he discovers a can of condensed milk, and a dusty carton of cocoa powder. There’s flour and brown sugar and baking powder too, presumably this shelf is all meant for baking, but that’s not what Virgil has in mind. He pulls out the can and the carton of cocoa, and retrieves the newly washed pot from the sink. At the kitchen table, his brothers continue to negotiate.

“…We’ll figure something out, for Alan,” Gordon says, eventually. “But J, we’ve only got a _week_. If you’re gonna get through the worst of this, we need all the time we can get to actually get you _through_ it, so you can actually start to turn a corner and be functional by the time spring break is over. We’ll lose a whole day if you burn tomorrow.”

John shakes his head. “I don’t see it like that. From my perspective, it would be the _only_ day I get to spend feeling okay, and I’d like the chance to make the most of it. I can’t remember the last time the three of us spent a meaningful amount of time together. I know the circumstances aren’t great, but it’ll be better than any day we’ve had so far. Friday night was a nightmare. Saturday just barely even happened, I was maybe half awake for _maybe_ five hours. And today was complicated. Let me have Monday.”

“To do what, exactly?”

“Just—I don’t know, just to be _normal_. Just to be myself for a little while. Just so this process can be less abrupt. This isn’t how you’re _supposed_ to quit Adderall. I’ve tried to quit before. I’ve always tried to go cold turkey, and it’s _murder_. It’s _so_ fucking hard. I recognize that I don’t exactly have another option, but if I could just ease myself into it—I think it would help. I just—please. I know this is going to be hard, but it could be just a little bit easier.”

An appeal to ease isn’t something that’s likely to get through to Gordon. Gordon gravitates towards things that are difficult, _relishes_ a challenge. Virgil remembers the peak of his little brother’s Olympic training, remembers what that absolute edge looks like. Miles and miles worth of laps. Workouts outside the pool, running and yoga, carefully balanced weight training and pilates. The eight thousand calorie diet that had been the reason he’d learned to cook, and the reason he’s also ravenously indiscriminate towards their grandmother’s cooking. Gordon’s unlikely to be sympathetic to anyone who doesn’t want to do something hard.

And predictably he says so, though he manages to keep the disdain out of his voice. “I think you’re just gonna have to suck it up, Jaybird. This is gonna be hard because you’ve _made_ it hard. If you weren’t prepared for that, you shouldn’t have gone looking for the easy way in the first place.”

It’s about as harsh as what Virgil was expecting, because Gordon can be remarkably hardassed about people who look for shortcuts. He looks over in time to catch John rubbing his eyes, heaving a sigh. “You sound like Scott.”

This is a phrase that’s probably never once been said to Gordon in his entire life, and it’s enough to get Virgil to look up from pulling the tab top off of the little can of milk.

Gordon’s equally as bewildered. “I sound like _who_ now?”

John shifts in his chair, plainly uncomfortable beneath the sudden attention from both his brothers. And maybe it’s the way he light hits him, or maybe it’s just the fact that it’s been six hours now, since he’d taken that last fateful dose, on the ferry across the sound—but Virgil thinks he can see his brother starting to wilt, a little bit. The energy he’d had earlier is being depleted, and he doesn’t sit up as straight or react as quickly. His hands are still folded on the tabletop, but he’s rested his elbows atop it too, slouching forward. “Just something Scott said,” he mutters, looking away. “I shouldn’t have taken it personally.”

“What’d he say?”

Gordon looks up as Virgil asks the question, but then his attention snaps right back to John again, though he’s probably paying close attention for different reasons than Virgil is. So far, Virgil’s skirted carefully around even mentioning their eldest brother, waiting for a moment when he can make the suggestion that maybe Scott’s the silver bullet in all this—that his advice and his insight are just exactly what they all need. It’s a half-formed thought and founded on nothing much more than a faint but fervent hope—until John laughs, soft and self-recriminating, shaking his head.

“Just—god. Years ago, now. Before I started at Harvard. After I graduated from KU, but before he went to the desert that first time. I guess the last time I really got to talk to him. I told him—I _tried_ to tell him—that I didn’t think I wanted to go. That I didn’t know if I could cut it, I guess, that it wasn’t like when he’d gone to Yale. And he said…” John pauses, and the way it takes him a moment to steel himself before he can repeat it—it makes it clear just how much it must have hurt, in the moment it was said. “He said I’ve always hated trying to do anything hard.”

The problem with Scott is that this is the sort of thing that Scott just _says_.

And Virgil can practically hear him saying it, can picture his two eldest brothers, off somewhere quiet and private in what would’ve been the aftermath of John’s graduation party, sort of also unofficially Scott’s going-away party. This was a quiet and private evening, family only, just a BBQ in the backyard. Dad on the grill, their grandmother salting the coleslaw into inedibility, Scott sneaking Virgil a beer or two, reasoning that his birthday was only a few months off anyhow. Virgil doesn’t remember if he actually saw it happen or if he’s inventing the memory, but he still swears he can see the two of them, standing off somewhere together, just talking. He can imagine John, and the way he’s always had of hedging his way around personal subjects, delicately trying to frame the way he feels as though it’s actually just the way he thinks—and he can imagine Scott, laughing it off, and then dropping one of those devastating one-liners. The sort of thing he says without realizing it’ll be remembered.

It’s almost certain that this wasn’t what Scott had meant by it—even years later, secondhand, Virgil knows Scott well enough to be able to translate the intended sentiment: that John should try and explore the world beyond the bounds of his comfort zone, a bit. Graduation from the University of Kansas was one thing, but the campus was only an hour away from home, and even the degree he’d come out of it with represented John, doing something he was naturally good at. Probably all Scott had meant was that it might be good for John to push his boundaries, to go somewhere new and try something different.

This isn’t the week for it, but Virgil wishes desperately that his brothers knew Scott even half as well as he does. He’s not sure how or when exactly it happened, in the patterns that he and his brothers have naturally fallen into, that he and Scott clicked together. Virgil keeps in touch with all his brothers, or tries to, but it’s always felt the easiest, the most natural with Scott. It had taken a while for Virgil to really work his way into Gordon’s confidences, and it’s become abundantly clear that he’s maybe _never_ really known John—but with Scott it’s easy. Scott’s always made a great deal of sense, from Virgil’s perspective.

But of course, none of this helps nearly two years later, and in retrospect. So Virgil doesn’t say anything.

No one else is thinking it, but John still breaks the silence to say it, quietly and half to himself, “I guess he was right.”

And before Virgil can come to their absent brother’s defense, Gordon’s fist thuds on the tabletop and his voice rises sharply. “Like hell he was! _Jesus_. Fuck him! Honestly, _fuck_ Scott. D'you wanna know something else that got said about you, Johnny? Something _Dad_ said? Piece of advice he gave _me_ , about some other shitty dumb thing that _Scott_ went and said, on account of he’s an arrogant fucking jackass and doesn’t ever _think_ about this shit before he fucking says it. _Dad_ said, and I _quote_ , ‘try and be more like John, he’s always been smart enough to know when to ignore Scott’s opinion.’ So _there_.”

This makes Virgil wince, but it gets John to laugh again, a faint, tired sort of sound. “Oh, well, it’s nice to know I’m being talked about. Does Dad use me as an example when he’s trying to make you feel especially stupid?”

“Dad uses you as an example when he needs to remind me that I’m a competitive little bastard, and anything you can do, I can do _better_. Up to and _including_ ignoring Scott’s stupid opinion.” Gordon huffs indignantly, conveniently forgetting any and every time he’s ever said anything hurtful to John. Up to and including the statement that had called Scott to mind in the first place. “Seriously though, forget Scooter. Goddamn golden boy—where the hell’s he even get off? Jackass.”

John, at least, is a little more measured in his reaction. “It was just the wrong time for me to hear it. I’m sure he didn’t mean it personally.”

“How the hell else do you mean something like that?”

John just shrugs, and if Virgil were a little bit braver, he’d interject at this point, and clarify what he thought was intended. None of this is fair, and hearing Gordon voice such a vitriolic opinion of their eldest brother makes Virgil cringe. Worse is the way he feels twisted up and guilty for knowing that trying to defend Scott’s actions in his absence is a losing battle. At least against these two, who apparently have it in common that they’ve been hurt by Scott’s carelessly voiced opinions. Which isn’t fair either. But they’re both attributing malice to what is adequately explained by recklessness, that cavalier quality Scott has of never seeming to care too much.

But Scott’s not here right now, even if Virgil wishes he were. So he goes back to whisking cocoa powder into a pot full of gluey condensed milk, as the stove heats up and silence falls between his brothers again. The little white bottle still sits, innocuous, in the middle of the table. Virgil adds about a quart of water to the pot on the stove, starts to heat it slowly up to the temperature most appropriate to cups of hot chocolate.

Gordon rubs his nose again.

He’s probably picked up on the same thing Virgil has, that John’s starting to fade out. He’s right that it’s less abrupt than last time. Virgil’s got an admittedly limited sample size, but compared to Friday night, this whole experience is already substantially less traumatic for all parties involved. There’s been no (well, less) shouting, no actual physical violence (well, not towards John, at least) and on the whole there’s just less anger. It’s better. It’s almost convincing enough to make Virgil forget that John’s proposal represents another step backward.

It’s probably lucky that Gordon’s got his teeth into the reality, and has a grip on it like a terrier, dogged and determined. He exhales, hard, but his tone softens slightly from what it was. “Look, John. I didn’t—I’m not trying to say what Scott said. This is gonna be hard, yeah. It’s hard already, because honestly, the way you’re trying to do this is just about the hardest way I can imagine. And it’s not that I don’t think you can do it, it’s just I hate to see you set yourself up to fail, because you and me, we both _hate_ to fail at anything. I feel like if you take another pill, John, that’s just another failure.”

John shrugs his shoulders again. “At this point in my life, failure is a continuum, not a discrete event. It would just be the ongoing expression of a long, downward curve.”

There’s a pause and then Gordon coughs. “I’m not enough like Scott that you can go bringing _math_ into this discussion there, buddy, so let’s just back that _right_ the hell off.”

This gets a faint smile. “Sorry.”

“Was kidding. Mostly. I guess I know what you mean. But there’s _gotta_ be a last one, John. I guess maybe in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t seem like it matters if it’s today or tomorrow—but why would you wanna do this for any longer than you have to?”

It takes John a minute to come up with an answer, like he has to think about it, even though it’s just a variation on an answer he’s given already. “Because this doesn’t feel like a clean break. It feels muddy and haphazard and accidental. I want this to be my choice. It’s been so long since I got to do anything that felt like it was what _I_ wanted.”

Gordon sighs and pushes back from the table, sagging back against his chair and shaking his head. “Well, _now_ we’re just going in circles. That’s a good reason, J, I’ll give you that much. But I’ve heard it before. And you haven’t convinced me.”

The hot chocolate’s heated through and the stove is off. Virgil opens another cupboard and pulls out three mugs, all mismatched and faded. One of them bears the logo of The National Baseball Hall of Fame, another proclaims the necessity of coffee for the day to begin, and the third is a pale, pretty shade of pink with a picture of a kitten, though this is half worn away and makes it look as though it has a nasty case of mange. He puts them on the counter by the stove and starts to hunt around for a ladle.

“I mean, I’ve got more. I can keep going.”

“Man, if you think it’ll make you feel better, but I dunno if there’s anything you could say to make me think it’s a good idea.”

That gives John pause. He’s been slouched over the tabletop before now, but he pushes himself up, seems to rally slightly. There’s a note of challenge in his tone as he starts, “Do you want to know the biggest reason? Like—it’s _incredibly_ selfish and petty and stupid, and maybe you won’t care, but it’s the reason why tonight isn’t good enough.”

The eighteen year old version of Gordon could have subtitled his autobiography with the words _selfish, petty, and stupid_. Virgil wonders if his little brother is self-aware enough to realize this, and he wonders if it’s the reason why Gordon arches an eyebrow and says, “Hit me.”

“It got cloudy.”

This gets Virgil to look up from his search, because it’s exactly the same sort of non-sequitur he’s heard from his brother once before. By Gordon’s expression, it has about the same impact.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I wanted to see the stars.”

Gordon’s still apparently unmoved. “They’re not going anywhere.”

John hesitates, and then clarifies, “I wanted to see the stars without feeling like I’ve been dragged behind a truck for a mile. I can’t even _remember_ the last time I took the time to look at the night sky. Let alone somewhere with skies as dark as this. I want to appreciate it. I want it to be the last thing I get to see, before the whole awful cycle starts all over again.”

Virgil had asked the question, not even twelve hours ago now. Sitting at another kitchen table, he’d asked his brother, _“When was the last time you saw the stars?”_ And John hadn’t had an answer.

He’s not sure if that was the clincher—if that had been what had gotten John to agree to get out of Boston for a while—but he’d known exactly what he was asking. Swimming is to Gordon what music is to Virgil, and music is to Virgil what the stars are to John.

And it’s such a cornerstone of John’s identity that it’s bizarre and a little bit frightening to think it could have been stripped out of him.

But Gordon just shrugs. “End of the week. Should be out of the woods by then. Probably feel like you’ve only been _hit_ by the truck, by Thursday night. That’s the carrot, Johnny, not the stick.”

At this point, mostly because it makes for a good break in the conversation, Virgil clears his throat. “Speaking of carrots,” he starts, aware that it’s potentially the lamest segue he’s ever made into a conversation, as he holds up the product of his efforts, three steaming mugs of hot chocolate. “See what happens when a non-sadist does the cooking? Dessert happens. You’re _welcome_.”

Gordon, at least, seems grateful for the sudden break in the tension, and sits up in his chair. The grin flashes across the counter is relieved and genuine, as he declares, “Not thanking you 'til I’ve tasted it, V-card, for all I know you’ve smuggled in some…what’s it called…fucking… _carob_ or some shit. Some bullshit vegetarian thing.”

Virgil blinks at him. “…do you think chocolate is an animal?”

“I think you eat a lot of _weird shit_ , and I don’t want _any_ of it.”

“God, but I forget about how you’re _dumb_ , Gordon.”

“Better dumb than vegetarian.”

“Asshole.”

“ _Vegan._ ”

Virgil just rolls his eyes and ignores the attempted insult, circles the kitchen counter around to the table, distributes mugs of hot chocolate. John gets “I’m Sorry For What I Said Before I Had My Coffee”, because Virgil thinks he’ll appreciate the irony, and Gordon gets the mangy pink kitten. Virgil sits back down with The National Baseball Hall of Fame in hand, though this time he takes the chair nearer to Gordon than John.

Now that he’s back in closer proximity to his brothers, it’s even more apparent that John’s flagging. He’s gotten quiet, since giving his last, best reason, and slouched further over the table, more of his weight rests on his elbows. His eyes are tired and glassy, fixed on the geometric pattern of the tablecloth. Virgil finds his gaze drawn to the hollows between the knuckles of his brother’s folded hands, and he reaches across the table and slides the mug of hot chocolate closer, butts it gently against his brother’s fingers.

His attention drawn, John rouses himself slightly, straightens in his chair and wraps his hands around the mug, presumably enjoying the warmth of it. John’s almost always cold, Virgil wouldn’t be surprised if his hands are like ice. He nods his gratitude, and says, “Thanks. This is already substantially better than tuna casserole.”

Virgil decides to play this it off as a deliberate kindness, rather than just something he’d done in order to have something to do. “Yeah, well. Trying to make amends.”

“I appreciate it.”

But it doesn’t seem to go far towards improving John’s mood, because he’s grown quiet, somber. Probably with good reason.

Despite his protests, and despite the fact that it’s probably technically still a little too hot to drink, about a third of Gordon’s hot chocolate is already gone, and he adjusts his chair, clears his throat. “You got an opinion on this, Virg?” he asks, and kicks Virgil lightly in the shin beneath the table. “Kinda been waiting for you to weigh in.”

Virgil blinks and hedges, “I mean—is there room for me to have an opinion? You said upfront that it’s not happening. I wasn’t under the impression that this was going to be a democratic process. You’ve been a real hardass about the subject, you make it sound pretty settled.”

Gordon sighs. “Well, no. I just talk a good game. And I _can_ be the guy who says no. But—and goddammit, I _hate_ saying this—John’s kinda right. This should be his choice, and forcing him into it isn’t a good way for this to happen. ’ _My way or the highway_ ’ hasn’t made this better. He makes some pretty valid points, now that he’s got me actually thinking about it. Maybe a clean break would be better. Maybe I kinda want a do-over too, a little bit. Because I was an _asshole_ on Friday night and—like _really_ , John, the way I acted—it was because a part of me was happy that you were hurting, and that’s really awful and I’m really sorry. There’s no excuse for that.”

There’ve been a lot of apologies today. John doesn’t ever seem to quite know how to accept them, and he shakes his head, and attempts to deflect this one. “Well, it’s not like I didn’t deserve it. I mean, I _am_ a drug addict.”

“You’re a person with a drug addiction,” Gordon corrects. “And that’s not how we’ve been treating you. I guess—I guess I don’t know, John. I shouldn’t have let you explain yourself, because I still wanna think I’m right, but now I feel shitty about it.”

John shrugs and takes a first, tentative sip of his hot chocolate. Virgil’s continues to go untouched, as he watches his brother. John seems resigned, as he admits, “The worst part is, I kind of think you’re right too. I just—I’m not strong enough to do this your way. If I don’t get to have tomorrow, then I’m at the edge right _now_ —and all I can think is that I’m not ready. I’m just not ready to try this again, I’m…I’m scared, I guess. And I know—I know I probably just sound like a drug addict. I know I probably sound like I’d say anything, and I guess I can’t discount the possibility that part of this is addiction talking. Maybe most of it. But it’s _me_ , too. A little bit. Whatever’s left of me, anyway. I guess maybe I can’t know what I sound like to you, but I _am_ trying to be honest.”

“I believe you.” Gordon slumps in his chair and drains the contents of his mug. He peers moodily into the empty bottom of the cup and sighs. “ _Man_ , this was a hell of a lot easier when you were a sanctimonious prick who was wrong about everything all the time.”

“This was easier when you were a stupid, selfish idiot,” John agrees.

“At least Virgil’s presumably still the voice of reason.” Gordon kicks him a little harder this time, and Virgil reflexively kicks him right back. “Still waiting on that opinion there, V.”

Virgil grimaces. “This was easier when it was the two of you hashing it out for yourselves. I don’t know what you want from me, I don’t know anything about this shit.”

This statement falls on dead air, and the silence that starts to stack up in its wake is palpably awkward.

John coughs, and the look he directs across the table at Virgil is enough to make Virgil look away, to drop his gaze and stare at the froth of pale chocolate foam, ringing the inside of his cup. When John kicks him under the table, it’s with less aggression than Gordon had, but it still gets his attention, forces him to look up again, to meet a pair of bright green eyes, tired but expectant.

“I know this is hard to talk about,” John starts. “And I know it’s probably frustrating, not to know about this the same way I do, or the same way Gordon does—but it doesn’t mean what you think wouldn’t matter. We’re all in the middle of this, and if you think one way or the other would be better, I’d like to know. It would help, even. Impartial third party.”

Gordon, helpful to a fault, translates this into a slightly more approachable adage, “Nut the fuck up, big guy. Yea or nay?”

Virgil shakes his head stubbornly. This is a point of principle. “I don’t know.”

Gordon elbows him this time, seems to have decided that kicking is hazardous. “You’ve gotta lean one way or the other, though. C'mon, V, we’re kinda sitting at an impasse here.”

It’s Virgil’s preference, generally speaking, to defer to experts whenever possible. In this case, the two available experts have both broken down their expert opinions, and both sides seem to make about equal sense. At least as far as Virgil can tell. The empathy that’s begun to bridge the gap between the two of them averages out into indecision. And Virgil doesn’t know the answer to the question. And he doesn’t want to be the one to make the choice. “Does it matter? I don’t know enough about how this works to make a judgment call. You two work it out. Figure out which way is best.”

He’s not sure why they’re both so insistent on his input, but John doesn’t take the hint. He tries again, “I think maybe we’re both a little too far into this. Me and Gordon. I thought I had a rational argument, but now he’s got me wondering if maybe I’m not just being a pathetic drug addict, and I should just suck it up and face the music. Except—”

Gordon picks this up, finishing one of John’s sentences for what’s probably the first time ever, “—except I think maybe I’m being pushy and overbearing about the way I think this should happen, and that’s not fair, and maybe one more day wouldn’t actually be that bad. Maybe it’d be good, even. This spring break _sucks_ , so far. One good day—hell, even just a decent eight hours—sounds like a pretty good deal, when I think about everything we’ve still gotta go through.”

Less than forty-eight hours ago, Virgil literally had to pull Gordon off of John, had to grab his little brother by the scruff of the neck and shake him roughly to get him to drop his grip on their big brother’s collar. He’d had to be the adult, then, the voice of reason. It seems like an entire lifetime ago, two days spread out and stretched thin, teased into an eternity by the sheer amount of emotional exertion required to get from A to B.

Virgil rubs at his eyes, mutters uncharitably beneath his breath about catch-22s, and has to ask a question of his own, “Are you two trying to tell me that you’ve _actually_ managed to talk each other around to the opposing point of view? Forty-eight hours ago you still _hated_ each other. And now you need me to act as an impartial third party, because the pair of you have gone and overdone it on the empathy and understanding, and now you’ve _actually_ reversed positions?”

There’s a mutually abashed silence from the both of them.

“It’s been a very rough weekend,” John offers eventually, stating the obvious.

“Pretty awful, really,” Gordon agrees solemnly.

“Yeah, _no shit_.” Virgil groans and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes and tilting his head back, just to give himself a minute to try and think. He doesn’t want to be the one to make this choice. He’s not an impartial third party, he’s an emotionally compromised third party, and being asked to choose between granting John a day of merciful reprieve or helping Gordon stick to his guns and keep their brother from another relapse—it’s just not fair. The pair of them have gone from polar opposites to two sides of the same coin, and Virgil can’t—

And he could almost swear he hears the ping as the penny drops.

Virgil sits up abruptly, in just the same moment that the idea strikes him. “Either of you got a quarter?” he asks, and counts on the conclusion to be as obvious to the pair of them as it was to him.

John just blinks at him, but Gordon’s already fishing through his pockets, depositing their contents on the table as he does. His wallet turns up, scruffy and leather, and the keys to his apartment, outnumbered on their keyring by assorted keyfobs—a little folding multitool, a decoratively knotted length of paracord on a carabiner, a little black penlight, a miniature rubber duck. A pocket knife. Three starlight mints. And finally—

A quarter clatters onto the tabletop. It’s apparently the only coin Gordon’s carrying, and he pins it to the checkered tablecloth with a fingertip before Virgil can even start to reach for it.

“ _That_ ,” Gordon informs him firmly. “is _lucky_. That’s been in the pocket of every pair of jammers I wore for every race I won in high school, because I found it wedged in a crack at the back of my locker and borrowed a pair of pliers off the janitor to pry it out. It’s from 2024 and it’s got a knick in the edge and a spot on Washington’s nose and I’ve _always_ got it. So if I let you flip it and by some freaky accident of physics it bounces off a rafter and then off the kitchen counter and then through some sort of freak gap in the floorboards and I _lose_ it—well, then V, I’m gonna be replacing it with one of your back teeth. And I am _dead_ damn serious. Got me?”

It’s a little known fact about Gordon that he’s intensely superstitious. Across the table, John looks faintly incredulous. It’s possible this isn’t worth the hassle. “I can get another quarter.”

Gordon shakes his head and his fingertip leaves the coin, reveals the black spot of tarnish that mars Washington’s profile. “Nope. Gotta be this one now. Only quarter with the right juju. Good idea, V. You gotta be the one to flip it. Just be _careful_ , okay?”

Virgil picks the coin up with exaggerated care. “I swear on my teeth that I will be very careful with your thirty year old quarter.”

“It’s a thirty-two year old quarter. I can get your teeth out with pliers, too.”

“Are we really…” John cuts himself off to glance uneasily between Gordon and Virgil, but doesn’t seem to detect anything that belies Virgil’s intention. He hesitates and then grows tentative as he asks, “Are…are we really flipping a coin to make this call? Really?”

“It’s a really lucky coin,” Gordon promises. “It might go your way, Johnny, it might go mine, but I bet anything it’ll be the better option, either way. This good. I like this. This is fair.”

“It’s just random chance, though.”

Gordon nods. “Fifty-fifty, fair and square.”

“Impartial third party,” Virgil adds. “You have a better idea, John?”

John doesn’t and he shakes his head silently. His hands are folded on the tabletop again, but his gaze is fixed on Virgil’s hand.

And it’s maybe a little unfair, reducing something that’s going to have such an impact their brother into something as trite as the flip of a coin. But as Virgil lays the coin deliberately over the back of his thumb—something about this feels right, even without all of Gordon’s superstitious woo. There’s a satisfying metallic ping as he flicks it upwards, and it arcs beautifully upward, catches the light, and then gets plucked out of the air, flipped and pinned solidly between Virgil’s palm and the back of his other hand. He hasn’t handled the coin for long, and it’s still cool against his skin. “Call it,” he says, kicking John’s ankle lightly beneath the table.

“Tails,” is John’s immediate, instinctive answer, though his fingers twist and together, betraying some sudden anxiety.

“Heads-up, buttercup,” Gordon murmurs, his chin resting in his hands as he waits for the reveal.

And Virgil lifts his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~  
> [So...heads or tails?](http://www.polljunkie.com/poll/wsniry/close-quarters)  
>  ~~
> 
>  
> 
> Poll over! Thanks to everyone who voted. On we go, and I hope to have the next update out as soon as I can. PS: there might be some art to go with it, who knows.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comic via http://kaylabarart.tumblr.com/
> 
> Previously published deleted scene exists [here](http://tb5-heavenward.tumblr.com/private/168789391367/tumblr_p1bkl0N1S91uv47b3)
> 
> thank you for reading <3 hopefully back in the saddle again now


	16. Chapter 16

They’re only playing cards because John doesn’t want to go to bed.

But then, knowing what waits for him in the morning—or even just on the other side of a rapidly approaching midnight—it’s not like Virgil can blame him.

They all know their way around a deck of playing cards. Scott trick shuffles, retains the muscle memory for all the clever moves and fancy flourishes, from a brief but intense period of his adolesence where he’d wanted to be a magician. John knows more variations of solitaire than a single person could possibly need to. Gordon’s a master bluffer, excellent at poker and bullshit, and Grandma’s first choice for a bridge partner. Alan still thinks fifty-two pick up is funny. Virgil just likes to play cards. A childhood spent in Kansas—in a part of the state not infrequently deprived of power by thunderstorms and the occasional tornado—has taught them all a basic appreciation for games that can be played by flashlight, in a storm cellar.

So far, John’s luckier at cards than he is at coin tosses. Or maybe Gordon just feels guilty enough to keep letting him win, because Gordon’s always been pretty lucky himself. For his own part, Virgil’s just enjoying the quiet, having something to do that doesn’t require a lot of extraneous conversation. Decompressing. It feels like a necessary diversion. A calm, quiet ending to the night, after the heaviness of the evening’s discussion, and the unbelievable length of the day behind them. Cards are nice, cards are neutral. Cards are something that remind them all of home, of childhood games played around the farmhouse’s big kitchen table. Go Fish and Old Maid and Snap and Spoons, graduating up into variations on Rummy and Whist and all manner of casino games.

It’s quarter to twelve and they’ve been at it for a couple hours, moved from the kitchen into the living room, with its big soft corduroy couch and an oversized armchair. This is on the side of the cottage that faces the sea, though the glass patio door might as well be a black hole for as dark as the night is outside. The only indication that the ocean’s even out there is sound of it; the slow, crashing tear of the waves against the rocky shore. And this is easy enough to get used to, and therefore easy enough to ignore, as the three of them continue to play cards.

The warm up was a few hands of cribbage, because it was the discovery of an old wooden crib board and two decks of cards that had gotten them playing in the first place. They’d moved on to an attempt at a game of three-hand Canasta, but despite the fact that their grandmother has taught the five of them almost every card game under the sun, they’d all been a little bit fuzzy on the rules, and the game had petered out before it could really get started. After that it had been a few quick rounds of good old Crazy-Eights, and then Gordon’s sly suggestion that they try a game of Bullshit had been outvoted.

So it’s just poker now, simple five-card draw. There aren’t any poker chips in this house—John puts this down to a rather puritanical attitude among New Englanders—so instead they’re playing penny-ante poker with a mason jar of old coins that Gordon had found tucked behind his bedroom door, apparently intended for use as a doorstop. The low coffee table in the middle of the living room is a carefully corralled economy of outdated currency. John’s got the lead, precisely forty cents arrayed in eight stacks of five coins appiece—though Gordon’s not doing too badly himself, and Virgil could cash out for a whole quarter, if he were so inclined. Conversation has mostly, maybe mercifully, dwindled down to the bare minimum required to keep the game going.

Until, from his chosen spot on a cushion on the floor at the end of the coffee table, Gordon deliberately clears his throat.

“Not that I wanna be  _that guy_ ,” he starts, carefully testing the waters as he makes his suggestion, “But I think we maybe wanna get to thinking about bed soon. Probably. Sooner than later, I think. Like, d'you maybe wanna call it at midnight, Johnny? You’ve gotta be getting pretty wiped out.”

John doesn’t answer immediately, carefully sorting the pennies in front of him into neat stacks of five. He’s gotten noticeably quiet since the coin toss, though even with what he’d had to lose, he’d still been an admirably gracious loser. It hadn’t been much of a contest, but after Virgil had revealed that the odds hadn’t gone his way, John had still reached across the kitchen table to shake Gordon’s hand. Gordon, consummate athlete that he is, had taken the handshake, immediately and automatically. And, maybe a little guiltily, had offered his brother the chance at two out of three. John had declined. Then he’d handed over his little white aspirin bottle without a further word. It had vanished into the pocket of Gordon’s hoodie. And that had been that.

And whatever the half-life on his last dose of Adderall is, it’s plainly apparent that by now, pushing midnight, it’s almost worn off. It’s been a slower, gentler process than Friday night’s abrupt, ugly crash—but falling slowly is still falling, and there can’t be too much further to go before John hits bottom again.

By the way he finally looks up and meets Gordon’s gaze, it’s obvious that he knows it, too. But he still declines with a shake of his head. “No,” he says simply, “I don’t want to do that.”

Gordon hesitates. And Virgil’s waiting for it, as his little brother glances up at him, silently requesting back up. Dutifully, he adds his two cents, though as he shifts in his place on the couch next to John, he’s careful not to make it sound like they’re ganging up on him. “I mean, I’m kinda getting pretty tired too, J. Been a long day. Lot of driving. Lotta heavy talk. We’re gonna have to run into town pretty early tomorrow, for groceries, and—”

“ _You_  are. I’m probably not even going to be  _conscious_.”

It’s the first thing he’s really said in the past half hour that hasn’t been some variation upon “call” or “check” or “raise”. There’s no mistaking the edge of bitterness to his voice now, for as well as he’d seemed to take it when things hadn’t gone his way. Maybe this is the first real indicator that his mood is starting to turn, some of the anger and irritability creeping back in, the first hallmarks of withdrawal. Virgil looks instinctively back to Gordon for an indication of how to proceed.

Gordon props his elbows up on the coffee table and folds his arms so he can lean forward. He keeps his question simple. “Aren’t you tired, John?”

“ _Obviously_  I’m tired.”

Despite the waspish way John snaps his answer, Gordon remains perfectly patient. “Well, then that’s a good reason to go to bed.”

There’s a stubborn shake of John’s head. “Not yet.”

“What do you think you’re waiting for?”

John doesn’t answer. Pointedly ignoring the question, he picks up a penny from the top of one of his neat stacks of five, and antes in. There’s the slightest sigh from Gordon, and then he follows suit, a single cent from his lose pile of thirty-odd coins. Virgil does the same and then methodically deals another hand.

They all handle cards differently. Gordon picks his hand up, looks at it once, and then puts it back down. John spreads his out, his eyes flicker from left to right across his cards, and then he rearranges them according to some personal system and folds them back into one another, so much the better to hide them from prying eyes. Virgil holds his cards the same way he has since he first learned to play Go Fish, which is a decent indicator of how about how seriously he’s ever taken card games.

“Check.”

“Raise two.”

“Call.”

“Call.”

“Johnny?”

“Three.”

“Gordo?”

“One.”

“Hm. Fold.”

“Raise five.”

“…Call.”

Gordon’s Jack-high straight handily beats John’s meager pair of sixes, and he sweeps eighteen cents from the middle of the coffee table into his little mound of pennies, as cards are tossed into the center again, and John picks up the deck. There’s nothing fancy about the way John handles cards, a pair of plain, utilitarian bridge shuffles and a quick cut or two. He’s passing the deck from hand to hand, waiting for Gordon to ante in and start another round, when the youngest starts deliberately counting out his heap of pennies. John watches Gordon. Virgil watches John.

“It’s only,” Gordon starts, stacking his winnings very deliberately into the same configuration as John’s. He’s closed the gap between them, and then some, a princely forty-six cents. “—it’s only how it’s kinda starting to show, J. That you’re losing your edge, a little. Maybe we oughta switch off of poker. If this were a  _real_ game, I’d just straight up clean you out.”

“A  _real_  game,” John echoes, and there’s an edge in his voice again, though not the sort of edge Gordon meant. It sounds almost like hostility, but maybe it’s just that competitive streak he and Gordon both share. “And that would be?”

Gordon shrugs, pretending at diffidence. “Well, proper hold ‘em, I guess. We’re playing kiddie poker, just for something to pass the time, apparently 'til your ass just straight up passes out, like last night. And I know Grandma taught us  _both_  to play tight, but a hand like that tells me that you’re just  _not_ , so  _therefore_  I kinda think you’re probably slipping.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Dude, you  _know_  you are.”

The cards in John’s hand snap against each other a final time, a sharp, crisp shuffle. And then, contrary to what Virgil was expecting, they land back in front of his place at the table, and John orders, “Cash out. Fifty cents each to start over, ten cent blind, five cent minimum bet. Virgil can deal. High card gets the button.”

There are only about eighty cents between John and Gordon, and so Virgil’s small stake is immediately and unceremoniously stolen from by both of them. Virgil hasn’t actually picked the deck up yet, not sure whether or not he wants to be party to this.

Because it’s probably been actual, literal  _years_  since the last time John and Gordon competed directly against each other, at least in an official, formal sort of way. It’s been a long time since things were civil enough between them for anything like an actual game. Virgil’s frantically casting his memory back, trying to assess the risks. He’s trying to pick out remembered instances of flipped Monopoly boards or impromptu games of fifty-two pickup, and trying to decide whether that one game  _of_  Risk that had gotten the game banned from the family forever counts on a technicality.  _That_  had  _definitely_  been a case of a fifteen-year-old John systemically obliterating their little brother, a methodical and deliberate campaign of undeserved aggression that had ended in tears and  _actual_  violence.

This is probably not that. Probably. At poker, at least, the pair of them should represent a fairly even match.

Still—

“Guys, let’s not turn this into a  _thing_ ,” he cautions, finally picking up the cards, shuffling them once in his own right, and then dealing to each of them to see who posts first.

“Little late for that,” Gordon answers cheerfully, and turns over a four of hearts against John’s suicide king. His lucky quarter makes an encore appearance, slides across the table to serve as the button, indicating that it’s John’s deal and that Gordon’s is the big blind. The four and the King are both shuffled back into the deck, and Virgil deals out two cards to each of his brothers. “I clean you out, you go to bed, Johnny. Sound fair?”

“Sounds unlikely.”

“Fifty cent stakes with a ten cent blind, five cent ante? No limit? And you with your brain actively entering emergency shutdown mode? Sounds pretty goddamn likely to me.”

John’s got something to prove now, and his voice takes on the condescending, know-it-all tone that Gordon must hate more than just about anything else in the world. “You’ve never had the math for this game,” he says, and takes a look at the two cards Virgil’s dealt him.

That’s probably true, but Gordon doesn’t rise to it. He stays calm and collected as he peeks at his own hand. “More to poker than math, Johnny.”

John just picks up five pennies, drops them into the pot, and calls.

Virgil sighs and deals the flop.

For the first few hands they’re just getting into the rhythm of the game, feeling each other out. They trade small pots back and forth, and the chip lead along with them. Betting is limited and cautious, and John folds more hands than he plays, but wins well when he does, adhering to strict mathematical probabilities. Gordon’s a little more confident and takes bigger chances, and while Virgil knows him well enough to have at least an idea of when his brother’s bluffing, it’s not likely that John knows the same.

There’s more to poker than math, and when you play with Gordon, the additional dimension is usually tabletalk in some form or another. After a particularly good win, in which he had managed a longshot flush off the river against John’s respectable two-pair, Gordon clears his throat and takes a look at the newest cards he’s been dealt. His ten-cent ante already sits in front of him, waiting for John to decide to play. “You guys wanna know a secret?” he asks, light and deceptively casual.

“Is it going to be the sort of secret that I can turn around and leverage against you, if at any point you decide you want to rat me out to Dad?” John asks, and taps a finger lightly on the top of a stack of five pennies, as his gaze stays fixed on the flop, very clearly running the numbers as he decides whether or not to play. “If it’s not going to be useful as blackmail, then right at the moment I’m pretty sure I’m not interested.”

After this latest hand, John’s losing. Not  _badly_  (not yet), but John’s still losing, and it tells in the slight worsening of his attitude, the waspishness of his tone. Virgil winces, but Gordon just shrugs. “No. It’s something Dad already knows. But I bet it’s something  _you_  don’t know. Bet it’s something  _Virgil_  doesn’t know either. Something of a family secret. I think it’s something you’d  _want_  to know.”

That catches Virgil’s attention, even if it doesn’t seem to catch John’s. He’s not sure just what Gordon’s angle is here—or what family secret he could be hinting towards. Virgil’s keeping a handful of family secrets himself, most notably one of Scott’s—but he doesn’t think what he knows is a secret Scott would’ve shared with anyone else. With Dad, maybe. As much as Dad would’ve needed to know, but no more. Scott keeps his secrets like they’re grenades he’s had to throw himself on, like the worst thing in the world would be the way they’d hurt other people. Knowing what he knows, Virgil thinks it’s possible Scott’s not entirely wrong about that.

Gordon doesn’t keep his own secrets, so  _this_  secret must necessarily be someone else’s, and that prospect makes Virgil squirm slightly, even as John finally looks up from his cards, meets their little brother’s gaze, appraising.

“Do I?” John inquires, rousing himself to something that, in the right lighting, seems  _almost_  like it could be curiosity. Now that Virgil gets a look at his eyes, he can see the tiredness reddening their rims, liquid brightness at their corners. There’s the tiniest twitch of John’s lower left eyelid, a tic of stress or weariness or probably both. Virgil does a quick count of John’s stakes versus Gordon’s, and finds himself hoping that Gordon starts to play like he means it. He has the suspicion that his little brother’s been going easy.

Gordon shrugs. “I mean, you seem to think you won’t care. I’m pretty sure you  _will_ , actually. I think it might be something you  _should_  know. It got told to me when  _I_  needed to hear it. Maybe I wanna pay that forward.”

There’s that sincerity again. Gordon’s always had something of the salesman about him, always been good at talking people around to his point of view. John’s fingertip continues to tap atop a pile of five cents and his tired eyes narrow, and apparently he’s immune to his little brother’s persuasion. “I don’t know. This feels like you, messing with me.” But he calls anyway.

Gordon’s certainly spent enough of his life messing with John that John would probably be able to tell, but somehow Virgil doesn’t think this is that. But in just the same way that he’s been summarily removed from the game, it’s obvious that his assessment of the situation isn’t going to be a factor. And by the way Gordon sighs and rolls his eyes, clearly John’s suspicions are off the mark.

“I’m  _not_. Tonight of all nights, Johnny, why the hell would I wanna mess with you?  _Jesus_.” There’s a quick, irritated little huff of breath through Gordon’s nostrils as he shakes his head. But then he takes a deep breath, and tries again, “Okay. Tell you what. You beat me, I’ll tell you. How’s that? It’s up to you if you wanna hear it, Jaybird, it’s just gonna cost you the round if you don’t, because I think you should.”

“This round?”

“This current hand, yeah.” It’s Gordon’s bet, and he picks up twenty cents, drops it into the pot. “There,” he adds. “Motivation.”

There’s a pause. John looks at his cards again, though the odds that he’s forgotten what they are are vanishingly small. The fingertip tapping on one stack of pennies becomes a hand stretched out over his whole stake, and he shoves the rest of it into the middle. “All-in,” he says, unnecessarily, and the flash of his grin is wicked.

Gordon blinks, surprised, and then his expression twists slightly. “ _Asshole_ ,” he mutters, and grimaces. “You really don’t even  _want_  to know, do you?”

John’s smile is slight, almost a smirk, and his voice is appropriately smug. “I know you want to tell me. So fold. Or call. You clean me out, I go to bed. You play the hand, maybe you win, maybe I do. And then we can  _keep_  playing, while you let me in on this secret of yours.”

Gordon’s expression has darkened slightly, and Virgil watches him pick up his cards again, squinting at them. He’s pretty sure it was less than ten minutes ago that he’d told his brothers not to make this  _A Thing_ , and yet here they are. He probably shouldn’t be surprised. He glances idly at his watch, and it’s already coming up on a quarter past twelve. At this rate, they’re going to have a late morning.

Eventually, Gordon sighs, mutters something under his breath, and counts out his coins. “Okay. You  _ass_. Calling.”

John turns over a queen and an ace. Gordon’s jaw sets as he displays his own hand, an off-suited two and seven. All three of them know it on sight for the very worst hand in the game.

“ _Wow_.”

“Shut up, John.”

“There’s more to poker than math, sure, but there’s at least a  _little_  math, Gordie. You do have to do  _some_  of the math. Those are the cards you  _fold_.”

Gordon scowls. “Yeah, well, I didn’t. Pull the trigger, V-card, let’s get this over with.”

Virgil clears his throat and methodically deals the flop, as instructed. He burns the first card, tucked beneath the haphazard stack of pennies that occupies the middle of the coffee table, lays three cards face down, then turns them over, spreads them out.

And an ace, a queen, and a seven mean that John’s pretty much got this locked down, though he frowns just slightly at the seven, even as Gordon perks up, just a little bit.

And when the turn card is another two, and gives the pair of them each two pair—the odds are still squarely in John’s favour, but Gordon’s grinning. And John looks a little unsettled, staring at the first two of three cards that could give his brother a shot at taking the hand.

And when the river is the seven that Gordon needs for a full house, Virgil actually feels guilty. On the couch beside him, John just shakes his head blankly, like this is proof that there’s a malicious force operating in the universe at large, and that it’s targeting him, specifically. If this  _is_  the case, then this force at its fullest expression seems only to want to make him stop stalling and go to bed.

“I can’t believe you played that.” John sighs, as Gordon pulls the full pile of eighty pennies over to his end of the table, and begins to put them back into their jar. He shakes his head again. “I can’t believe you  _won_.”

“Well, I wasn’t trying to  _win_.  _You_  weren’t supposed to bet everything on one stupid hand.” Gordon’s already shoveled the entire dollar back into the mason jar, and he deposits it back in the middle of the table, with a solid, determinate  _thunk_  to emphasize his point. “That was just  _hubris_ , Jaybird. Game over. Now it’s bedtime.”

John rubs at his temples, and doesn’t get up, leaning back into the couch cushions, sagging visibly. He closes his eyes and puts his head back, like he doesn’t  _intend_  to get up. “I guess I agreed to that, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, and we’re gonna hold you to it, even if it means we have to  _drag_  you to bed.”

Virgil clears his throat and shuts that one down, “We’re not dragging him anywhere. We’re not gonna  _have_  to. Right, John? A deal’s a deal.” He shifts on the couch and gives his brother a gentle shove, then gets to his feet, hoping to set an example. “And you’re tired.”

“Mmm.”

Gordon gets up off the floor, stretches. He passes his left arm across his collarbone, applies pressure against his elbow with his other hand, stretching out his shoulders. He repeats the same in reverse. He shakes his limbs out, loosening himself up, and then puts himself squarely in front of the couch, looming over their older brother in a way he only manages when people are seated. He folds his arms over his chest. “C'mon, Johnny,” he urges. “You’re not crashing on the couch. Into bed, get some proper sleep. You need it.”

John opens his eyes again, looking up at Gordon, evaluating. Once again, he pushes his luck and asks, “Don’t you want to tell me this big family secret?”

“Nuh uh, buddy, that’s off the table.  _Especially_  because now you’re just stalling.”

“What if I can guess?”

“No.”

“I bet I could guess.”

“ _No_ , John.”

“We could play twenty questions.”

“Stop.”

“Ten questions?”

“I  _mean it_ , John.”

“Dad had a mistress.”

“No.”

“Dad  _has_  a mistress.”

“ _No_!”

“ _Mom_  had a mistress.”

“John, for fuck’s  _sake_ —”

“Sparky didn’t  _really_  get cancer, Dad just got sick of him.”

“You are  _literally_  the only person in the family who had a problem with that dog. And—”

“We have a secret sixth brother.”

“ _No_.”

“I’m adopted.”

“I can’t imagine anyone actually  _choosing_  you as a family member, so no. No, you’re not.”

“ _You’re_  adopted.”

Gordon scowls. “I’m starting to hope so. That’s seven, John, and I’m getting  _real_ sick of your bullshit.”

John counts off on three fingers as he goes through the last of the list, “Scott’s a bastard. Grandma has a full back tattoo. Grandpa was a drunk.”

The pause that follows this statement stretches out longer than it should, and slowly fills with the dull roar of the sea outside, as Gordon’s angry silence starts to stack up. The entire exchange has been uncomfortable—their elder brother, behaving like a four-year-old child, and rattling off the sort of insulting nonsense that would be unthinkable from him in any other context. While it demonstrates that Gordon can be patient when he really puts his mind to it, it’s hard not to feel like there’s a limit being approached, and that a hard reset would be best for everybody. Virgil can practically hear the count of ten that must be going on in Gordon’s head, before he exhales a deep breath and answers, flat and angry.

“Yeah. Yes. There. You got it. Good job.”

“…Wait, really?” John shifts to sit up straight on the couch. “You’re just saying that.”

“No,  _actually_  I’m not. And I regret ever bringing it up, because you are actually and genuinely a  _jackass_ , John, and I just need you to know that I really,  _honestly_ mean that. So I’m done with your bullshit for the night, and if you’re not going to bed, I  _am_. Fuck this. Virgil,  _you_  deal with him.”

As far as dramatic exits go, Scott’s probably the only one who’s got Gordon beat, where storming out of the room is considered. Gordon turns on his heel and stomps out of the living room before either of his brothers can say anything further, and leaves Virgil bewildered and worried and apparently responsible for getting John to bed. A few moments later there’s the slam of a bedroom door. Virgil groans and curses inwardly, presses his fingertips against his eyes and counts to ten on his own.

There’s a soft ruffle of cards shuffling against each other again, when Virgil looks back down at his elder brother, he’s shifted himself to the forward edge of the couch, and he’s patiently dealing out a game of solitaire. It’s only watching him trying to place each individual card that Virgil notices that John’s hands are shaking again.

And after a minute of indecision, Virgil sighs and drops back onto the couch beside his brother, settles down to wait him out.


	17. Chapter 17

“Do you know what he meant?”

John’s voice has gotten quiet, worn soft with weariness all his own, but it’s still enough to startle Virgil back from the edge of sleep. He grumbles to himself as he rubs the heel of his hand against his eyes, and a sigh turns into a poorly stifled yawn. “He said it’s something I don’t know,” he answers shortly, glances at his watch and curses inwardly at how late it’s gotten. “So I don’t know.”

“He also said I guessed right, though.”

The solitaire game he’d been watching John play has lost all semblance of neatness, descended into haphazard piles of cards, only vaguely in order. As Virgil sits himself up on the couch and rubs at his eyes, a glance at his brother’s cards tells him that John’s gotten himself stuck, played his way to a losing game. He’s still hunched forward over the coffee table, the remains of the deck in one hand, elbows resting on his knees as he peers down at his cards. Virgil doesn’t bother to tell him that he’s already lost.

Virgil’s tired, and he’d been right about to drift off, before John’s voice had snapped him back into awareness. His head has started to hurt and his eyes are dry, and he doesn’t understand how his brother’s still upright, fixated on his losing game, when by all available logic he should be crashing by now. “He was just fucking with you. You pissed him off.” He feels a slight twinge in his jaw as it sets, and he comments, “Maybe you’ve noticed, you’ve kinda got a knack for that.”

John just shakes his head. He’s gotten quieter, though by Virgil’s watch it’s only been about fifteen minutes or so since Gordon stormed off, and he’s only been drowsing for about ten of those. It feels like it should be hours. It’s funny how time doesn’t seem to run quite right, after midnight, after a day like the one they have behind them. Between the white noise of the ocean outside, the warm glow from the single lamp illuminating the living room, and the stillness that’s fallen over him and his brother, Virgil feels weird and disconnected, caught in a surreal little pocket of reality that seems somehow discrete, separate from every other part of their lives.

If it bothers John, he doesn’t show it. He just continues to stare down at his cards, silent until he continues, “I think maybe he meant what I said about Grandpa Grant. That he was—”

 _Grandpa was a drunk_.

Virgil feels his jaw tighten and his teeth grit together. “He wasn’t.”

“Are you sure? You said you didn’t know.” John finally seems to recognize that there’s nothing to be done with the cards in front of him, and he starts to push them back together into a pile, turning over the few he’d managed to turn face up. The blue and white of the pattern on the backs of the cards puts Virgil in mind of the blue of his brother’s veins beneath the paleness of his skin. As he pushes the cards into a proper stack and squares off their edges, he adds, “I mean, when I think about it—”

“Grandpa  _wasn’t_  a drunk.”

John hesitates, but only for a moment, before he dives right back into the argument. “He  _did_  drink, though.”

“So? I drink. Scott drinks.  _Dad_  drinks. The occasional drink now and again doesn’t make a guy a drunk.”

“Kept a bottle of Wild Turkey in the barn.”

Virgil grits his teeth. “He kept a  _shotgun_  in the barn. He kept  _everything_  in the barn. Most of it was the stuff he didn’t want us getting into, which could conceivably include a bottle of Wild Turkey, considering that one Christmas you and Scott got into Grandma’s egg nog and nearly poisoned yourselves. What’s your point?”

John shrugs. “What’s yours? Mine is that addicts have stashes.”

The cards rustle against each other, a clumsy sort of shuffle that’s probably not as effective as it should’ve been. John’s usually fairly particular about that sort of thing. Regardless, he starts to deal another game, and Virgil watches him, starting to lose hope for an end to the evening. Maybe he should give up, the same way Gordon had.

A silent minutes pass, and few rounds into his next game, John speaks up again. His voice is still soft and if possible it’s grown softer, as he asks, “Do you remember the year I had my appendix out?”

He does, but only because it had happened the year after Scott had the same. He remembers better when it had happened to Scott, partially because in Scott’s case it had been that much more dramatic. They’d been on vacation, camping in Yellowstone with Kayo and her father. It was about half a year after Mom, and the family had been trying to find its way back to some fragile state of normalcy. Scott had gotten sick, and then Scott had gotten  _really_  sick, and then one emergency helicopter evacuation later, that had been the memorable end of that vacation. He’d had Scott’s head in his lap while they waited for help to come. But he hadn’t actually  _been_  there when it happened to John.

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Mm. There’s—when it happened—there was something that never made sense to me. Not ‘til now, at least. Not until tonight, with what Gordon said. It just…it explains something I always wondered about.”

Virgil’s sure, even before he says anything, that he doesn’t actually  _want_  to know. But there’s that same sensation again, of being caught in the middle of something apart, something separate. Something that won’t have consequences. It’s against his better judgment when he asks, “…what?”

“Just—something about the way it happened. I was fourteen. It was the year after Mom died—that was a  _godawful_  year for a lot of reasons, and this was just one of them. It happened towards the end of it. New school, new school year. Dad wanted me to skip a grade. Scott was away at boarding school, it wasn’t like when we were kids. It was…rough. And after school you had piano lessons and Gordon had swimming, so Grandma was always dealing with you two. Kayo was staying with us for a few months, so I had her and Alan to look after.”

John’s stopped playing his game. The cards wait on the table in front of him, and Virgil can see where the next play should go, but John’s stopped paying attention. His voice has gotten distant, and while his gaze is fixed, it’s like he’s staring past the table in front of him as he works his way back through the memory. It’s a story Virgil’s heard before, but never quite like this. And actually, never from John.

“It was in November. I think it was November. It was after Halloween, because Alan still had Halloween candy. Dad was overseas somewhere. Grandma was in town with you and Gordon—I think you had a recital, maybe? Or Gordon had a swim meet. I don’t know. But you three were in Lawrence or somewhere, an hour or so away, and I was supposed to be babysitting Alan and Kayo, even though Grandpa Grant was home. He was out in the barn the whole time—you know how he was.”

Virgil always thought so, better than almost anyone else. Grandpa Grant is the member of the family that he’s most often compared to, and Virgil’s always held their grandfather in the highest esteem, tried to emulate what he feels are his best qualities: his quiet practicality, his stoicism, his desire to solve problems. More than once Grandma Tracy has referred to her late husband as the family rock, and this is a title Virgil aspires to. Being reminded of his grandfather gets him to sit up on the couch, and to try to remember what his grandfather would’ve done, in a situation like this. Virgil’s impatience and frustration have gotten in the way of his perception of his brother, and he gets the uncomfortable reminder that more than anything John’s just been desperate for people to talk to—that he’d only relapsed out of the desire to be clearheaded while doing so.

He shifts to sit a little closer to his brother, tries to seem a little more like he’s listening. “Yeah.”

“Right. Just…especially after mom died, he got kinda closed off. We still saw him around, but mostly he started keeping to himself. He was there if we needed him, but—less.”

“A lot of things changed after Mom.”

“Yeah.” John pauses, exhales. His cards are still in his hands and he toys with them idly, staring down at the game he’s stopped playing. He’s quiet for a little while longer, and then he glosses over what would usually be the climax of the story. It’s almost non sequitur when he says, “And I got sick. I don’t think I’ve ever been in that much pain, before or since. It hurt so much I couldn’t even stand up. And Kayo called an ambulance.”

Virgil remembers that detail from hearing the story secondhand. It’s actually a story that usually gets told about their foster sister and the heroism that seems built into her nature, more than it gets told about John, who’d only been a hapless and obliging victim. “Well, your appendix was going to explode. Already had that happen once with Scotty, that was a  _bad time_. He nearly died.”

“Yes, I’m aware Scott did it first.” There’s a hint of bitterness there, which Virgil doesn’t understand. It’s certainly nothing to be jealous of. John shakes his head to himself, seems to shrug out from under whatever shadow the mention of Scott had cast. “I mean, that’s how she knew what was wrong. That it had already happened with Scott. I was in so much pain, I don’t think I knew what was going on 'til I actually heard the sirens. I just remember being on the floor in the kitchen. Maybe the dining room? No—no, it was the kitchen, because there was—there was something written on the underside of the kitchen table and I couldn’t figure out what it was or it how it got there, until Alan told me it was a rocketship control panel, and that him and Gordon had drawn it on with crayons. Alan was there. Poor kid. He was only  _four_ , and he was  _terrified_ , but he stayed the whole time. He tried to make me feel better. Kayo, too, right up until she had to go let the paramedics in. She was only  _nine_.”

It’s hard not to feel a warm swell of affection for their sister. This is usually told as her story. Kayo’s off overseas somewhere. She’s nineteen, just a year younger than Gordon, and as far as Virgil’s aware, her father’s gotten her enrolled in some highly specialized training program somewhere in eastern Europe. He makes a mental note to call her, even as he comments, “She’s got a good head on her shoulders. You’re lucky she was there.”

“Why’d she call an ambulance, though?”

The question doesn’t make sense. “…Because your appendix was exploding?”

John exhales and looks up from his cards, and asks the question again, “If Grandpa was there,” he starts, “then why would she call an ambulance?”

Virgil pauses. The farmhouse hadn’t quite been in the middle of nowhere, but it  _had_  been a solid twenty miles from the nearest hospital. Half an hour’s drive, even on the highway. An ambulance would’ve represented twice the time it would’ve taken for their grandpa to drive to the emergency room. The raw inefficiency of it would’ve gone against the man’s nature. “He must’ve told her to,” he says, but already he’s starting to see the shape of the question John’s  _really_  asking, the question he’s had ever since it happened.

“Maybe. But when the paramedics got there, she  _also_  told them we were home alone. They brought her and Allie along in the ambulance. And it must’ve been during one of your recitals, because Grandma’s phone was off. The first person on my contact list that they could get a hold of was Scott, and he wasn’t even in the same  _state_.”

Virgil winces. His memory of the event gets clearer as John provides the details, and now he remembers being with Grandma when she’d gotten the news. After his recital, when they were meant to go pick Gordon up from practice, he remembers the way her face had gone ghost white when she’d gotten her voice mail. She’d told him to run into the YMCA and to tell Gordon not to dawdle in gathering up his things, that something had happened to John and they needed to go to the county hospital.

And she’d been angry. Angrier than Virgil can remember ever seeing her, though he remembers thinking how it hadn’t made sense that she would be  _angry_. John was sick, she should’ve been worried. Scared. But instead she’d been so angry that her knuckles had been white around the steering wheel of her truck, and they’d driven for an hour and a half, all the way to the hospital, in a silence that had been almost frightening. Even Gordon had known better than to say anything..

That’s something Virgil hadn’t ever understood. The offered context—the implication that their grandfather had been too drunk to drive, or to even be consulted about one of his grandsons in a state of medical emergency—it goes against everything Virgil ever believed about the man. Even as his brain helpfully starts to make all sorts of other connections around the provided information, it breaks his heart to realize it’s probably true, and dredges up so many more questions about how neither he nor John had ever noticed.

Beside him, John’s given up on any semblance of the game. He’s gathered his cards up, left them sitting in the middle of the table in an untidy pile. He still sits hunched forward on the couch, blank and silent. Instinct has Virgil reach out and put a hand on his shoulder. It seems like a long time passes between them, but it’s the sort of thing that’s hard to tell in the small hours after midnight.

When Virgil finally breaks the silence, all he can think to say is, “C'mon, it’s time for bed.”

And this time, John doesn’t protest.


	18. Chapter 18

On the other side of the room, his elder brother sleeps, and it’s about goddamn time.

On the other side of the planet, his _eldest_ brother is probably right in the middle of his day.

It’s still taken Virgil a full hour of staring broodily at his phone to decide to send even just one single, innocent text. Just to find out if Scott’s around to chat. He’s probably not. He’s probably busy. Scott’s an air force pilot. He’s probably flying. Wherever his phone is, it’s probably not on him, and so he probably won’t see Virgil’s message for hours yet. If he’s lucky, Virgil won’t be awake for the reply. He and Scott will miss each other, and he won’t do anything stupid, like unburdening the contents of his put-upon soul onto his big brother, who probably isn’t there, because he’s probably in the middle of his workday.

Anyway, it’s just one text.

`V: hey, you there?`

And almost instantly:

`S: mornin' v.`

Fuck.

Well, there’s nothing for it, now. He hasn’t got any choice but to continue the conversation, because he certainly can’t leave Scott hanging. He steals a guilty glance up from his phone’s display, at the figure curled up on the bed against the opposite wall. Virgil hadn’t been entirely certain why he’d had the impulse, but instead of ushering John to his own room, he’d directed him to the other twin-sized bed in the room he’d chosen for himself. Remembering the way there’d been two or three blankets piled up on top of John’s duvet back in Boston, he’d gone to collect a couple extras. John had been out like a light by the time he’d gotten back, and Virgil had gently patted his brother’s shoulder, carefully layered another blanket on top of him, and then left a spare folded at the end of the bed.

Then he’d clambered into his own bed, and tooled around moodily on his phone for a solid hour, trying to talk himself into or out of texting Scott. Now it’s three in the morning, and he’s texted Scott. Worse still, Scott’s texted back.

There’s just nothing for it. He hasn’t got a choice.

`V: hi.`

`S: How goes? kinda the middle of the night for you, isnt it?`

`V: yeah.`

`S: everything okay?`

This was a bad idea. This is a bad idea for exactly the same reasons it was a bad idea last time, because it’s so easy to talk to Scott. Talking to Gordon is always an effort in keeping pace. Talking to John has just been _draining_. But talking to Scott is easy, and in spite of himself, even in the middle of the night, Virgil feels better just knowing that his brother’s around to listen.

`V: i might be in over my head here.`

`S: toldja`

`V: who knew unpacking the circumstances behind two years of wholly unnecessary mutual animosity between our two stupid brothers would be so emotionally exhausting.`

`S: me. I knew that. you dumbass.`

Virgil huffs softly, but with a certain fondness. It’s possible he’s the only one of his brothers to realize that Scott buries affection within his general attitude of abrasion; that this is something that’s always been true about him, and which their father says he’ll eventually grow out of. Eventually he’ll get the knack for sincerity. For now, Virgil can usually pick out the intent behind the actions, and knows that it comes from a good place.

`V: yeah yeah.`

`S: they running you ragged? yelling/screaming/carrying on? throwing things?`

`V: no, it's all been surprisingly civil. just lots to talk about. like I said, emotionally exhausting.`

`S: I have no idea what those two could have to talk about besides how much they hate each other. They're basically polar opposites.`

`V: more alike than they are different, if you ask me.`

`S: you think? one time grandma said the pair of them are like chalk and cheese.`

`V: Grandma's got a way with words.`

`S: so what have chalky and cheeseboy had to talk about?`

Lots. Most of it isn’t anything Virgil’s going to be able to repeat, especially not with his brother sleeping on the other side of the room. The thought of betraying John’s confidence while John is _actually_ present represents a little more guilt than Virgil thinks he could stand.

`V: if it's all the same to you, i'm kind of sick of talking about john and gordon.`

`S: that's fair. should i let you get to sleep?`

`V: no. I wanna talk, just not about the two of them.`

`S: cool. okay. something on your mind?`

Virgil likes it about Scott, that he knows to ask the question directly. He’s growing more and more aware of the fact that he and Scott are the only two of his brothers to actually share this sort of relationship. Gordon doesn’t really share so much as he orates, will pontificate and prattle at anyone who’ll give him the attention. John and Alan might come close, but if so, it could only possibly go in one direction; with John as the repository for all of Alan’s troubles and trials, all the secret hurts and worries and fears that he doesn’t bring to anyone else. It couldn’t possibly go the other way—there’s no chance that John would ever burden Alan with anything like his own loneliness or the addiction that’s been slowly destroying his life, and him along with it.

And so considering the value of upfront, immediate honesty with his brothers, Virgil starts leading into the question that’s been on his mind all night.

`V: something kinda came up in conversation. We got to talking about when we were kids. Do you remember when John had his appendix out?`

`S: sure. year after mine. The hospital called me at school. I skipped out to drive home. Four hours down from the academy in Missouri. Was there when he woke up.`

That’s a detail Virgil had forgotten, but now that Scott mentions it, his next memory is of how visibly relieved their grandmother had been when Scott turned up, striding briskly through the hospital doors, tall and rangy and only seventeen, but still with the inherited air of their father’s authority. He’d joined them in the waiting room and had immediately taken over from their wilting and worrying grandmother, scooping Alan up and getting the first smile from of him since things had started to go wrong. Getting the story out of Kayo and drawing the appropriate attention to her heroism, and suggesting that it probably deserved cake and ice cream, but that those were things best acquired at home. And he’d let Grandma take everyone else back to the farmhouse, while he’d stayed at the hospital with John.

Virgil wonders if John will remember, and decides he probably will. As far as their childhoods stack up, John ranks lower than his brothers as far as accumulated traumas. The broken arm and the appendix are really the only two major incidents in John’s medical history, and clearly the circumstances of the appendix have at least been etched into his memory. He’ll probably remember that Scott was there, but wonders if the reminder would go any distance towards buffing the sharp edges off the chip on John’s shoulder, where Scott is considered.

It’s not Scott or John that Virgil’s wondering about, though.

`V: where was Grandpa?`

`S: Don't remember.`

There’s an immediacy to the denial. It flashes up in a second, from clear across the other side of the world, like Scott hasn’t even had to think about it. Like it was an automatic answer, prepared specifically in case of inquiry, and retrieved at a moment’s notice.

`V: was he maybe passed out drunk in the barn? because conversation kinda went that way, and the idea kinda came up that maybe Grandpa Grant was a drunk.`

This time there’s a much longer pause, a break in the conversation in which Scott starts and stops typing several times in a row. It’s dark in Virgil’s room, but for the bright blue light of his phone screen. It’s so late it’s started to be early, just past three. Across the room there’s a soft shuffle of movement and the rhythm of John’s breathing changes. There’s a slight hitch, a soft gasp that makes it sound like he’s been startled by something, and he twists and shifts beneath the blankets, mumbling something unintelligible, vaguely distressed. Virgil’s already pushed himself onto one elbow, shoved his phone under his pillow, watching his brother—but the disturbance passes as suddenly as it had come on, and John subsides back into sleep with a whimper that fades into a heavy sigh, as his breathing deepens again, evening out.

When Virgil looks back at his phone, Scott’s finally replied.

`S: Okay. Well. Grandpa Grant was an alcoholic. Let's be clear about our terms.`

`V: i don't really see how the fucking semantics make much of a goddamn difference. How long have you known that? why does GORDON know that?`

`S: I've known since Grandma told me, at the hospital, and told me not to tell anyone else. I don't know how long Gordon's known. I guess Dad probably told him.`

`V: why didn't I know that.`

`S: You were twelve. You weren't supposed to. It was private and there wasn't anything any of us could have done for him. Dad and Grandma handled it.`

Virgil’s got more than enough to keep him awake tonight, but memories of his grandfather keep bubbling up to the surface with their context changed. He doesn’t like it. He likes it even less now that Scott’s confirmed the truth. It feels like a violation, somehow, like he’d wanted Scott to continue to lie about it. In fairness, he’d tried to. If Virgil hadn’t pressed, Scott had been ready and willing to continue covering up the truth. Virgil should’ve known better. Should’ve let it lie.

His phone buzzes softly in his hand.

`S: you okay?`

`V: not really.`

`S: I'm sorry.`

`V: not your fault. it's just`

`V: like`

`V: it's grandpa grant, you know? since I've been little people have always told me I'm just like him. Grandma still does. and I guess always thought I was close to him, but I was barely sixteen when he died, and now everything I remember about him is suddenly different. the context changed.`

`V: he always used to have a couple beers with dinner. and then he'd go out to the barn. and then later he was just ALWAYS out in the barn. he stopped being around us as much when we stayed at the farmhouse. and then after that thing with John, Grandma wouldn't leave us alone with him anymore. she sold off all the heavy machinery, the old tractor, half his tools. so he wouldn't get drunk and hurt himself, right?`

`S: yeah, that's about the strength of it.`

`V: like holy shit. I never thought about any of this. that next summer we went out, he wasn't even sleeping in the house any more. he slept out in the barn. grandma had her room in the house, and grandpa had his room in the barn, and i just never thought that was weird. i never wondered why. i thought it was like a kansas thing. or an old people thing. or a straight people thing, what the fuck do I know. but it was because of how he drank.`

`V: hell. I always thought the way he smelled was just aftershave or cologne or just the way old guys smell. but no, it was just bourbon. kept a bottle of wild turkey in the barn. and he always smelled like fucking bourbon.`

`V: fuck scotty, i like a glass of bourbon.`

`S: yeah. me too.`

`V: not any more I won't`

That’s bourbon and his grandfather, falling right below John and aspirin, on the list of things that Virgil won’t be able to think about the same way any longer, or ever again.

And he hates this. He really hates this, right down deep from the very core of himself, he hates the way it feels like such a betrayal, to learn truths like these about people he loves. In his head, John was always one of the smartest, sharpest people Virgil knew, all that coppery bright brilliance, like a penny glinting in clear water. His grandfather was always one of the strongest, most reliable people in Virgil’s life. A rock the entire family anchored themselves to, the same as Virgil’s tried to be.

But John’s a drug addict and his grandfather was a drunk, and it starts to call into question things Virgil’s always believed about himself, that both those things could be true without him ever noticing.

`S: I guess that's fair. but virg, it doesn't make him a bad person. okay? You remind everybody of the best parts of who he was. none of that changes. it's just that he got sick. Addiction isn't a personal failing. it's a sickness. it would be like hating sparky because he got cancer.`

`V: i don't hate him.`

`V: I just don't understand how I didn't know. I care about my family. i try so hard to look after my family. and then something like this was true and I had no idea.`

`S: Virgil, you were TWELVE.`

`V: i don't mean back then.`

And now he’s gone and done it. That’s the Rubicon, and he’s stepped across it, as though it was nothing more than a trickle of meltwater across pavement. He has to tell Scott. He’s not sure how and he’s not sure when, because it’s gone from a quarter-past to half-past three in the morning, and Virgil’s eyes are stinging from tiredness as much as from emotion. It’s not a conversation he can start tonight. But it’s a conversation they have to have, for Scott’s sake as much as Virgil’s, and for John’s sake more than anyone else’s.

Scott, his best and eldest and favourite brother, somehow always knows how to ask the right questions, and goes directly to the heart of the matter.

`S: What DO you mean?`

Virgil glances guiltily at John, still curled up across the room, completely ignorant of the imminent betrayal of his confidence. They haven’t shared a room since they were both still children. But Virgil remembers that it used to be John who’d lie staring at the ceiling for hours past midnight, or wake well before sunrise and find himself unable to fall back to sleep. Virgil, by contrast, would clamber into bed sharply at nine PM and proceed to sleep solidly through just about anything, including the storms that would tear across the Kansas plains, thunder rolling loud enough to shake the whole house.

He doesn’t have the heart do this, with his brother asleep on the other side of the room. But he doesn’t have the heart to lie to Scott, either.

`V: okay. there's something wrong. I can't tell you exactly what right now. As soon as I can, I will. Promise. But it's gotta be in person.`

`S: UH. what the fuck.`

`V: everything's okay.`

`V: i mean no, everything is not okay. some shit is kind of really fucked up. but nothing's like`

`S: Virgil.`

`V: I mean no one's in immediate danger.`

`V: that doesn't make this sound better. I mean don't worry. Everything's under control. there's just stuff we have to talk about. you and me. soon.`

`S: virgil, seriously and for real, what the fuck.`

`S: do i need to come home? I can get home. I don't know how, but if you just tell me what's wrong, I can get myself home. I'll talk to my command, I'll make it happen. I'll just fucking leave if I have to.`

`V: no no no no no that is like. what that's like desertion or something, don't you get shot for that?`

`S: I don't know! you're making it out like there's some sort of horrible emergency and you need me.`

`V: it's not an emergency. not really. it's like a really slow and non urgent emergency. it can wait. we just need to talk.`

`S: so call me`

`V: can't right now, everybody's sleeping`

`S: SO LEAVE THE VICINITY OF PEOPLE WHO ARE SLEEPING.`

`V: I can't.`

`V: And I said I wouldn't tell`

`S: YEAH WELL YOU'RE DOING A REAL GOOD JOB OF THAT`

`V: augghh sorry.`

`S: Is it John or Gordon?`

Almost on cue, there’s another shuffle of limbs beneath bedsheets from across the room, like some deeply embedded subroutine in John’s subconscious can detect when he’s being talked about. Or maybe all the light and the rapid tap of Virgil’s thumbs on a touchscreen are enough to wake him from an unfairly light sleep. Either way, it’s nearly four in the morning, and Virgil’s stomach twists with guilt. He stuffs his phone underneath his pillow again, and his head along with it, pulling the blankets up to help stifle the blindingly bright little screen. He deliberately ignores Scott’s question, and asks one of his own instead.

`V: when are you gonna be stateside again?`

`S: um. fuck, I don't know. Maybe late may.`

`S: yeah, hopefully the end of may.`

`V: Can you come to Denver then?`

`S: maybe? I've got a thing in California. but virg that's MONTHS from now.`

`V: it's the best i can do.`

`S: okay. but you are gonna tell me exactly what happened.`

`V: i'll try. I'm sorry, Scotty. I didn't mean to freak you out. everything's under control.`

`S: you promise?`

`V: yeah.`

`S: like, you REALLY promise. I mean like you'd swear on mom.`

Swearing to something on or by the memory of their mother is pretty much the heaviest weapon in the arsenal, when it comes to exchanges between the five of them. Things are as serious as death when one or the other of them declares something important enough to invoke their mother’s memory, because it guarantees that whatever follows must be absolute truth. None of them would lie about something important, with their mother to hold them accountable.

Virgil can’t quite offer the absolute truth at the moment, so he hesitates, tries gauge the greyness between an outright lie and the omission of the truth. Eventually, he settles on the only thing he can think to say.

`V: I'd swear on Grandpa Grant.`

It’s the best he can offer, considering the circumstances. Seconds stretch out as he waits for Scott’s answer. Holding his breath, he hears another change in John’s breathing, even from the other side of the room. There’s another catch, another stutter, like he can’t quite get enough air. _Everything’s under control_ , Virgil lies to himself, even as he stuffs his phone under the pillow again and lifts his head from beneath the blankets, to peer across the darkness at the bed against the opposite wall.

His phone buzzes in his hand, but whatever Scott’s reply, Virgil doesn’t see it. There’s a sharp gasp from the other side of the room, and all Virgil’s attention is suddenly fixed on John. It’s with a jerky, unnatural motion that his brother sits bolt upright, still all twisted up in bedsheets and his extra blankets. Virgil’s eyes are adjusted to the darkness, but he gets the feeling that John looks at him without actually seeing anything, as his gaze moves blankly around the room.

His voice is empty and far away and disconnected, and it might just be the scariest thing Virgil’s heard in a while, when John quietly announces, “Someone else is here.”


	19. Chapter 19

Alan used to sleepwalk. Virgil’s intensely grateful for the fact that Alan used to sleepwalk, because it means it only takes a few seconds for him to realize that John isn’t actually awake, and what’s happening to him now is probably something like sleepwalking.

They’re still the scariest few seconds he’s had lately, and this is after a weekend in which his elder brother nearly had a drug overdose. The uncanny quality about the way John moves, the way his voice sounds all wrong, and the fact that he’s still just sitting there, staring—it all adds up to the logical conclusion that John hasn’t actually woken up, and this is some sort of unfortunate parasomnia; a malfunction, probably accountable to the exhausted and chemically imbalanced state of his brain.

Virgil sits up slowly and carefully, like sudden movement will draw his brother’s attention. Alan used to sleepwalk when he was little, but it’s been years since Virgil had to deal with Alan’s sleepwalking. There were tricks to it, but the most important thing to remember was not to wake him up if it could be avoided. Waking Alan up in the middle of sleepwalking was the surest way possible to render him disoriented and terrified, and it was always just about impossible to get him back to bed after that. But he could be talked to, gently given instructions to stop whatever he was doing—Alan’s tendency when sleepwalking was always to methodically find and empty assorted containers, dumping out puzzles from his playroom or boxes of pasta from the pantry—and carefully herded back to bed.

So Virgil keeps his voice quiet and steady, speaks slowly and clearly as he says, “No one else is here, John. Lie back down.”

“I have to leave.”

“ _No_ , you absolutely  _do not_  have to leave.” Virgil tells him firmly, shifting himself to the edge of the bed, in case this becomes more than just a declaration of intent.

“Dad’s home.”

_Oh boy._

“Dad’s in California. We’re in Massachusetts.  _You_  are in  _bed_ , Johnny, because you are just really,  _really_  tired. C'mon. Lie down. We’ll talk in the morning.”

John just shakes his head, and clumsily untangles himself from his twisted up nest of bedsheets and extra blankets. He clambers out of bed, and Virgil watches him helplessly, holding his breath as John pauses in the middle of the room, in the space between the two twin beds, just waiting. He sways slightly, a little unsteady on his feet, but for the moment he doesn’t go anywhere.

Waking Alan in this situation always resulted in an explosion of panic. Virgil’s not sure if the same thing would happen to John, but he remembers every insidious myth he’s ever heard about sleepwalkers, in the same moment that he remembers the AED their little brother has stashed in the bottom of his backpack. It might not  _really_  be true that waking a sleepwalker will give them a heart attack, but he also wonders how much overlap there is between sleepwalkers and drug addicts, and whether the additional dimension of risk was ever taken into account.

He’s still sitting uselessly in bed when his brother shuffles towards the door and wanders out of the room. Cursing softly to himself, Virgil has no choice but to get up and follow him.

The floorboards creak beneath his feet, but something about the way John moves must be different, because by the time Virgil creeps after him into the hallway, his brother stands silently at the end of it, one hand on the wall, silhouetted by the deep blue light of a clearing winter sky through the windows in the main part of the cottage. He stands still for a long moment, before moving on. Virgil holds his breath and follows, tries to step lightly past Gordon’s bedroom door—though he wavers for a few moments at the threshold, tempted to wake him up for help. But even from the doorway he can hear his little brother’s broken-nosed snore, and Gordon’s always been a heavy sleeper. Time wasted waking Gordon up might be time in which John could hurt himself.

Predictably, in the next moment, there’s the sound of something shifting across the floor, and Virgil hears John stumble, presumably over some of the furniture in the cottage’s small living room. He hurries to the end of the hallway, and half expects to see John sitting back down on the couch, dealing out another round of solitaire.

Instead, worse, John’s nearly tripped over the coffee table on his way to the cottage’s back door, the one that leads out to the boat launch off the back. Virgil’s heart leaps straight to his throat as he watches his brother fumble for the mechanism that locks the sliding glass door, and it clicks open beneath his fingers.

It’s four in the morning and Virgil’s exhausted; physically, mentally, and emotionally. For a moment he wonders if he’s dreaming himself, and this isn’t really happening. There’s a sense of unreality to everything that’s happened so far, but even as the thought crosses his mind, he feels the worn smoothness of the hardwood beneath his feet and the ache in his back from the way he’d been lying on his stomach in bed, and there’s no doubt that he’s awake. John’s in silhouette again, standing in front of the glass door, and he’s doing exactly what he’d said he had to: trying to leave.

Virgil has to swallow before he can find his voice to call after his brother, but for some awful reason this is barely more than a whisper, and gets lost in the rush of icy wind through the door as it slides open, and John slips through.

The chill of the breeze through the open door hits him, and Virgil manages to snap himself out of blank, staring disbelief. He’d frozen up, and it’s ironic that it’s the blast of icy air that snaps him back into himself, as he bolts across the living room and after his brother, edging into a state of high anxiety. When it was Alan, everyone always used to worry that he’d sleepwalk himself out of the house, but he’d never actually done so.

Their cottage at the end of the beach is sat right at the edge of the water. Off the back of it there’s a small deck, and this extends out, right above the steep, rocky slope down into the icy water of the Atlantic Ocean. Overhead, the skies have cleared.

Not completely. The moon is hazy and dim behind a few remaining shreds of cirrus cloud, but the night sky behind them is as bright and diamond brilliant as it wasn’t earlier in the evening, with the purplish gold of the sunset like a bruise on the horizon. It’s nearer to dawn than it is to midnight, and the day that stretches behind them feels like it’s lasted forever. The roaring in his ears doesn’t sound like the sea, but rather the pounding rush of blood as his heartrate picks up, irrationally afraid that his brother’s just going to walk himself right into the icy grip of the water and disappear forever. The sea itself seems quieter than it should, though it might just be that Virgil’s finally grown used to the sound of it.

Or maybe a hush has fallen over the whole entire ocean, as Virgil stares at his brother, standing at its edge, looking up at the stars.

The shock of the cold outside should’ve woken him up, but it hasn’t. It’s the end of March, but it’s still freezing on the east coast, and even if the sea is relatively calm, the breeze blowing over it is frigid and damp. Virgil’s in his pajamas, same as John is, and the wind cuts through his t-shirt, needles over his skin, sharp and painful. He can’t understand how his brother doesn’t feel it, standing in the dark beneath an infinite sky and before an indifferent ocean, gazing at both but seeing neither.

He needs to do something. Even having followed his brother outside, Virgil’s still caught on the stairs down from the cottage, still irrationally afraid of what might happen if he wakes John up, though it’s rapidly becoming more dangerous  _not_ to intervene. He should’ve woken Gordon. Gordon would know what to do. It occurs to him that he could’ve slept through this happening. If he hadn’t stayed awake texting Scott, he would’ve fallen asleep, and slept just as heavily as his little brother does, and then John would be out here alone. Even if Virgil doesn’t know what to do, it’s lucky that he’s here to do  _something_.

But before he needs to figure out what, the wind rises. And if the cold had needled at his skin before, it’s like the blade of a knife now, cutting right to the bone through the fabric of his t-shirt. It’s cold enough that Virgil flinches, and it’s enough to wake his brother.

It’s like seeing a marionette have its strings yanked, coming to life against its absence of will, suddenly animate and aware of its surroundings. John startles awake with a ragged gasp, staggers slightly as he realizes he’s standing upright, and then stares around wildly, disoriented and confused, and rightly so.

And he has every right to panic. Virgil’s already bracing himself to see his brother break down in absolute terror, just the same way Alan always used to. But John doesn’t. By some unsolicited miracle or undeserved mercy, the first thing he seems to recognize is the night sky overhead. It’s not the brightest possible sky in the world, but it’s brighter than it is in Boston. But there are more stars than John will have seen in ages, the reason Virgil had been able to talk him into coming out in the first place.

And so instead his brother stands transfixed.

The stars are to John what music is to Virgil, and this is the only analogue by which they’ve been able to understand each other’s respective obsessions. The day Virgil recognized the rapture in his brother beneath a starlit sky as the same rapture he feels in front of a symphony orchestra, he’d gotten that much closer to understanding his brother.

Assigning any kind of mysticism to the stars above is the surest and shortest way to get on John’s bad side, but Virgil still can’t help but feel like there’s been some sort of cosmic alignment, somehow, that he’s here, watching his brother in a moment like this. Nothing as ridiculous as Mercury rising in Taurus, nor fanciful as any mythical agent of the heavens ordering the events on the Earth below—but just the improbable conflux of circumstances that’s brought this moment into being.

It’s a moment that can’t last much longer. If it’s not the coldest part of the year, it’s certainly the coldest part of the night, and the wind off the sea is icy to the point that Virgil can feel himself starting to shiver. The wooden boards of the deck beneath his feet creak and shift slightly beneath his weight, as he approaches his brother and carefully clears his throat.

“Hey. John?” he starts softly, and now that he’s caught John’s attention, he gingerly lays a hand on his brother’s elbow. “Remember that one time Gordon woke the whole family up in a blind goddamn panic because it was three in the morning and he couldn’t find Alan, and we all turned the whole house upside down and Scott went to check the garage and Dad went out to check the barn and it turned out the kid had actually shut himself up in the kitchen pantry, dumped out every single box of pasta, and then gone back to sleep on the floor? Because actually I kinda think you might have him beat this time, Johnny.”

Virgil can feel his brother trembling, and he’s not sure if it’s the cold or the exhaustion, or more probably both. Some instinct has him adjust his grip, moving his hand from John’s elbow up to his shoulder—but his brother seems to crumble beneath his touch, curling inward on himself. His arms lock around his chest and his shoulders fall, and he draws a sharp, shuddery breath, doesn’t let it go.

And a hand on his shoulder suddenly seems like a grossly insufficient gesture, because in the next moment John just  _shatters_. The breath he’d been holding tears out of him as a poorly stifled sob, and Virgil just about jumps at the sound of it, raw and real and harsh and halting, as though something dammed up inside him has broken through, and there’s nothing left holding back the flood.

And so there’s nothing for Virgil to do bit reach out, to get ahold of him properly and to pull his big brother into a hug—but what’s surprising is the way John lets him, the way he gives in to being held, comforted. The whole weekend so far, Virgil’s been watching his brother flinch and shy away from contact, flatly rejecting anything more than a hand on his shoulder. It’s hard to say if it’s the emotion or the exhaustion that’s broken his defenses down now, but at this stage Virgil’s not sure if there’s a difference.


	20. Chapter 20

Gordon’s always been an early riser, and so when he pushes open the bedroom door and peers inside, right around the crack of dawn, Virgil’s not surprised. Half past six in the morning finds him sitting upright and awake on the bed beside their brother, who’s buried in blankets and curled up tightly against the wall, dead to the world. The curve of John’s spine presses against Virgil’s hip and it seems like the only sound in the room is his breathing. Virgil’s been awake for twenty-four hours at this point, and while he’s vaguely aware of the fact, he doesn’t feel tired, exactly, only sort of vague and disconnected. Meeting Gordon’s gaze, Virgil gives him a brief nod and a wave.

The door squeaks softly on its hinges as Gordon pushes it open and steps inside. At some point he’s acquired one of John’s hoodies again, though this is still almost comically too big on him. It’s too long in the torso and the sleeves cover his hands and it makes him look younger than he actually is. Even then, he’s only twenty, and barely twenty at that. Without a word he clambers up on the end of the mattress—the bed frame creaks in protest at the addition of another fully grown adult—and settles down cross-legged. He rests his back against the wall and leans over slightly, peering at John.

Whatever he’s evaluating, after a few moments he seems satisfied, and looks up at Virgil. “Rough night?” he queries, and it’s hard to miss the note of apology in his tone.

Virgil nods and rubs his eyes, tired and stinging and sore, and a little red around their rims, though maybe Gordon won’t notice that. “Wasn’t great.”

“Yeah. I guess I kinda figured that. I’m sorry, V.” Gordon sighs and rubs a hand through his hair, an untamed thicket of curls and split ends, bedheaded and bright, Californian blond in the sunlight that slants through the bedroom window. “I shouldn’t have bailed. I just—”

“It’s okay.”

It isn’t. Virgil’s not sure why he keeps saying so. It doesn’t help, it certainly doesn’t make it true, and he knows better.

Gordon does too, apparently, because he shakes his head, grim and plainly remorseful. “Nah. It’s bullshit, is what it is. When’d you finally get him to go to bed?”

Virgil’s already resolved not to trouble Gordon with mention of their brother’s recent somnambulance. Maybe later. Hopefully it was a one time kind of thing. He shrugs and keeps the details scant. “Past midnight. We talked for a while.”

“Mm.” There’s still an extra blanket across the end of the bed, a woven woolen thing, and Gordon starts playing with the tassels at the end of it, splaying out each strand of yarn, counting. He doesn’t look up as he says, “Guess you guys talked about Grandpa Grant, then.”

The conversation is only hours old, but Virgil still feels like he's hazy on the particulars. This is probably down to the fact that he hasn’t slept, and has been too tired to really think clearly, or do anything other than sit up, awake, worn out from the course of the weekend so far, and the past twenty-four hours especially. “Yeah. I mean…John was the one who sort of worked it out, there were things he remembered that I didn’t—and I guess I didn’t want to believe it. Part of me still doesn’t. It…it makes  _sense_ , I guess, but it just doesn’t track with the way I always thought of him.” Virgil pauses, and admits something he knows will make Gordon think less of him, because that’s just the way Gordon is. “I wish you hadn’t said anything.”

There’s a pregnant sort of pause, but there’s less judgement in it than Virgil had expected, and Gordon almost sounds apologetic as he answers. “Yeah. I figured you were gonna take that one kinda hard. I wish I hadn’t said it the way I did. S'just—fuck, I dunno, Virg. It was late. I was tired. And I’m really trying, but John still kinda winds me up sometimes, and I shouldn’t have—I should’ve just walked away. That wasn’t how it should’ve come out. I only wanted to tell him because I thought he should know. I guess I thought it might help.”

It’s possible there’s some logic there. Virgil’s just not sure about the timing. Ignoring his own reservations, he asks a relevant question, “How did you find out? When?”

Gordon’s fingers continue to toy with the tassel. “Dad told me. Years ago, now. It was right after  _my_  big fuck up. I’d been under house arrest in LA for maybe a week and a half, after he called me up on the carpet and told me to get my shit in order. Like, he sent me home and I got  _grounded_. I didn’t see him that entire time—I didn’t see  _anyone_. He took my phone, shut off the internet at the penthouse, gave the maid the week off and had groceries delivered by drone. I’m pretty sure he slept at the office the whole time just so I’d be starved for human contact once he finally decided to show up.”

Virgil nods at the memory, and can’t help a tired smile. “I remember. He told the rest of us not to talk to you, if you managed to reach out. I’m surprised you survived.”

Gordon grins to himself. He’s divided the little woolen tassel into separate strands and has started to carefully braid these together. “I’d named all the houseplants by the time he figured I’d had enough. I think Herschel the  _Haworthia Cooperi_  still lives in the bathroom with a whole crop of succulent little babies. I was losing my mind, I probably would’ve gone off the balcony if we didn’t have the pool on the roof, even if  _is_ basically just a lukewarm repository for birdshit and broken dreams. Probably no better than I deserved, really.”

Gordon’s never been especially fond of the penthouse in LA, though Virgil’s always chalked this up to latent and lingering guilt after he’d trashed the place on his eighteenth birthday. It’s possible it had more to do with the fact that he’d been shut up inside it for a week and a half with nothing to do, though before now Virgil hadn’t ever given it that much thought. Gordon continues.

“I mean, let’s be real, Dad’s  _kind of_  a supervillain. I say that with all possible affection and esteem, but like—the man knows his psychological torture. Enforced solitude is basically my own personal hell. A couple days would’ve done it. He gave me the whole  _week and a half_.”

It’s hard not to chuckle at that, especially with the unironic anguish in his little brother’s voice at the memory. “I think John could probably do a week and a half without external human contact without even actually noticing.”

Gordon looks up and briefly abandons his fidgeting to reach out and gently pat their brother’s knee. John doesn’t stir, but Virgil doesn’t really imagine the gesture was for his benefit, anyway. It’s just another reminder of how starkly impossible anything like genuine affection from Gordon to John would’ve been, even just a week ago. It’s bittersweet, on a morning like this. “Yeah, but that’s just the introvert/extrovert split. Put him in a room full of Ivy League undergrads and after twenty minutes he’ll pretty much want to kill himself.”

Virgil winces. Gordon notices, and backtracks. “That was a little too on the nose, maybe.”

“Kinda.”

Gordon coughs awkwardly and presses on. “Sorry. Anyway. Yeah. Dad told me. He let me stew in my own juices—”

“ _Ew_ , Gordon.”

Gordon disregards this. “—for a week and a half, and then he just came home from work one night, no warning ahead of time. Acted like he hadn’t had me in solitary confinement for ten days straight. He poured himself a drink and sat me down in the living room so we could have a talk. And I mean, like, a capital-t  _Talk_. Like, this was a  _Father_ -Talk, this was not a Dad-Talk. The man should have a patent out. I would legitimately not put it past him.”

The way Gordon talks about their father will never be anything less that utterly and completely inscrutable to Virgil. Idly he wonders if John would understand their little brother’s ramblings any better. “I think that’s just a generic father thing. I think they all probably do that. Good fathers, anyway.”

Gordon scoffs. “If you think  _that_ , then you haven’t had a  _Talk_ from our father. He sat down in the living room with a glass of bourbon, neat, and then he told me that our grandfather—his  _father_ —drank himself to death. Like, he  _led_  with that. I don’t remember if he even said hello.”

That’s something that Virgil hadn’t actually figured out yet, but his heart sinks upon hearing it and he closes his eyes, tilts his head back until the back of his skull knocks against the wall. It’s possible he’s too tired for this, but it’s too late for that now. He should’ve gone to sleep, after coaxing John back to bed, but sleep hadn’t seemed like it would come easily, and he hadn’t been able to make himself leave his brother’s side, after John had nearly walked himself straight into the Atlantic Ocean. He takes a deep breath and heaves a sigh as he steels himself to ask a necessary question, though it comes out as a statement of fact in want of confirmation, “It wasn’t a heart attack in the barn, then.”

There’s a long silence from Gordon then a soft sigh of his own. “It was a heart attack he wouldn’t have had if he hadn’t been blackout drunk, maybe. He was  _definitely_  drunk when he died. Like, really,  _really_  drunk.”

“Jesus, Gordie.” It lands like a blow, like a casual backhand that Gordon doesn’t realize he’s delivered. Virgil’s pretty sure he feels himself flinch. He’s pretty sure he can feel tears threatening at the inside corners of his eyes, and he presses his fingertips against the bridge of his nose, feigning a headache. This isn’t entirely untrue, but his actual headache is the tension kind of headache, and he feels it in his neck as much as he feels it throbbing at the back of his skull. Eventually the threat passes and he blinks his eyes open, looks back at his little brother, whose hands have stilled in his lap, but who hasn’t lifted his gaze to continue the conversation. “Dad just flat out told you that?”

Gordon nods. “Yeah. He was making a point. I mean, two weeks ago he’d seen me in about the same state. Drunk enough that I didn’t even know who he was when he came to the door. And…well, you know me. I’m  _kind of_  a goddamn dumbass. You really have to give it to me straight, when it’s really important. So Dad did.”

Virgil shudders at the thought. He tries to imagine how it would’ve been felt to be told what really happened to their grandfather without anything like preamble, with no softening of the truth. Learning about his alcoholism had been one thing, but at least he and John had been able to put it together gradually, piece by piece. And at least Scott had been reasonably gentle in confirming it. He tries to imagine what it would’ve been like to hear it from their father, but maybe it’s a difference between him and Gordon—Virgil knows in his heart that his father would never do anything like that. Not to him, anyway. He can’t imagine why Gordon thought it would be a good idea to do it to John.

“Is that why you wanted to tell John?”

Gordon shrugs. “I dunno. It was an impulse. It went differently in my head. I thought we could talk about it like grown-ups. I thought it might make him realize that this isn’t the first time this has happened, y'know? That this wouldn’t be Dad’s first rodeo. When Dad told  _me_  about Grandpa, it was because he needed me to know that he’d watched his father drink himself to death. And he just couldn’t bear the thought of seeing it happen again—and especially not to one of us. Like, he was just honest with me about that. No lecture, no bullshit. I think it maybe made a really big difference. He just sat me down and talked to me like I was an adult. I know Dad a lot better now than I used to. John doesn’t.”

“No, he really doesn’t.” Virgil shifts his weight on the mattress, adjusts the extra pillow he’s placed at his back, against the wall. Beside him, John’s still completely out. He and Gordon are talking about him without the slightest compunction, because it’s plainly apparent that John’s not hearing a word. This second round of sleep is much less restless than the first, so deep that it’s almost a little unnerving. If he closes his eyes and listens, Virgil can still hear John breathing, soft and slow and steady. He rests a hand on his brother’s back all the same, for the reassurance of feeling it, too. They’re back to square one, but it’s hard to feel like things are going to get any better. Virgil’s trying to figure out how much of his pessimism is really just sleep deprivation, because it’s hard to feel like things haven’t gotten much, much worse.

Gordon, in the uncanny way he sometimes has about him, seems to identify this particular thought from the quality of the silence in which it goes unsaid. He clears his throat and gives Virgil a meaningful stare, before he says, “Virg, you understand that there’s no version of events where we  _don’t_  get him through this, right? That’s just what’s gonna happen. He  _is_ gonna get better.”

This is maybe more difficult to believe than Gordon realizes, when Virgil’s wearied and worn out brain keeps creeping towards the thought of their grandfather, dying to his addiction on the dusty floor of an empty old barn. When only a few hours ago, beneath a diamond sky, he’d watched his older brother break down in a way that older brothers—especially Virgil’s older brothers—just aren’t ever supposed to. “Is he?” he asks, exhaustion bleeding into hopelessness. “Grandpa didn’t.”

There’s a stubborn jut of Gordon’s chin in response to that statement, a set of his jaw that belongs to their father, and is slightly less-effective as a hand-me-down, though still recognizable for what it is; pure, world-altering tenacity, of the exact same type that had their father leave the first footprint on Mars. The same type that had Gordon win his gold medal. “Grandpa didn’t have  _us_. And I’m saying there’s no version of this week where me and you  _don’t_  get John through the worst of this, because he’s our goddamn brother and that  _matters_. He’s  _gonna_  be okay, because it’s just fucking  _unacceptable_  that our brother could be anything less, if there were something we could do about it.”

Virgil shakes his head, though he doesn’t mean to disagree. It’s just that it all sounds a little too pat and perfect. Gordon’s unrelenting optimism is one of his best qualities. It also occasionally gives him a view of the world that’s so rosy that he fails to perceive reality. “Are we gonna be enough?”

Gordon shrugs. “If we have to be. I don’t think you’re getting what I’m telling you, V. We can’t change what he does, only what we do to help him. And we’re gonna do everything we can. I’m saying that I’m not gonna let him give up, and I’m not gonna give up on him. If him and me can hate each other for two whole years, then clearly we’re a stubborn pair of bastards. He  _wants_  to get better. That’ll go a long way.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Gordon nods now, decisive. With the sort of energy that belongs to someone who’s had a full night’s sleep, he bounces himself up off the end of the bed, stands up and stretches, extending his arms up over his head, so that the sleeves of John’s hoodie plummet down to his elbows as he rocks on the balls of his feet. “I  _know_  I’m right,” he answers, with the sort of confidence that belongs to gold medal Olympians. “Just you wait. We’ve got the rest of spring break ahead of us. We’ll fix him. Food and sleep and rest and quiet and people who actually give a damn about how he’s actually doing. We’re here and we care about him, and that’s more than he’s had in like a year and a half. It’s gonna make a difference. Promise.”

And in spite of himself, in spite of how rough his night was and how tired he’s gotten and how hard it is to know that his older brother is as broken as he is—Virgil feels a little bit better. Gordon’s unfailingly earnest and his optimism, unrealistic or not, is infectious. “You sound like you’ve got a plan. That’s a novelty.”

There’s a slightly offended snort in response to this admittedly uncharitable comment. “Well,  _you_  sound like you got dragged behind a truck for a mile.  _John_  is literally not even concious. Someone’s gotta have a plan, and if it’s gotta be  _me_ —well. I can be a responsible adult. Just watch me. Get some sleep. Tell me where you left the keys, I’m gonna go into town and get groceries. Sleep ‘til noon and there’ll be pancakes when you wake up.”

Virgil groans a little at that, because it makes him think about the two mile walk from the cottage, back to the lot where they’d left the car, and then the drive into town, and then the process of grocery shopping for a vegetarian, a drug addict, and a former Olympian, drive back to the lot where they’d left the car, and then the two mile walk back to the cottage, carrying enough groceries for a vegetarian, a drug addict, and a former Olympian. It’s a lot. Even for Gordon. So Virgil starts to shift himself off the bed, attempting to follow his little brother, but the movement makes him ache all over, and he gives up. His protest is therefore demonstrably halfhearted. “I can—”

Gordon shakes his head as he interrupts. “You can stay right here, Virg. Someone’s gotta keep an eye on John, because we’re  _definitely_ not dragging his whole situation into town and then all up and down the grocery store aisles, trying to find vegan baloney for  _your_  stupid ass. You stay here. I got it. Get some rest.”

His bed is just on the other side of the room, and that distance looks much more manageable than even just the  _thought_  of two miles back to the car, the drive into town, around the grocery store for enough food for three grown adults, and then the whole trip in reverse, carrying the aforementioned. Beside him, unlike the night before, John’s sleeping soundly. He hasn’t so much as twitched, even with his two younger brothers talking about him. It’s tempting—sensible even—just to stay, though he hedges a little bit more, “You sure?”

“I’m sure. Tag out, bro. I’m tagging in. Keys?”

Virgil finally relents, and manages to summon the effort to lever himself up off John’s bed with a groan. It’s not a long trip back to his own bed, and as he pushes back the sheets, he finds that his bed is blissfully cool, not to mention empty of feverishly slumbering drug addicts in the depths of exhausted withdrawal. Virgil sighs to himself as he sits down at the edge of the bed, rubbing at his eyes again “Okay. Keys are in my jacket pocket. Be careful with that car, because it’s a rental, it’s in  _my_  name, on  _my_  credit card, and  _you_  are a goddamn  _maniac_  behind the wheel. If you take that thing over thirty-five miles per hour, Gordon, I swear, I will personally throw you straight into the Atlantic Ocean.”

This isn’t entirely an idle threat. “Yeah,  _yeah_ , I’ll be careful with the stupid car.”

“I  _mean it_.”

“I heard you! Jesus.” Gordon’s stepped back up to the side of John’s bed, and prudently, protectively tucked the blankets a little more snugly around his shoulders. Virgil doesn’t miss the way his little brother gently pats John’s back, and feels a funny little swell of affection for the both of them. As he turns, Gordon catches Virgil watching, and mistakes his appreciation for concern. “He’ll be okay,” he says, reassuring. “He’s just really needed this.” There’s a pause, and then after a moment’s hesitation, some of the bravado falls away, that gung-ho, olympian positivity, as Gordon quietly, humbly concludes, “—maybe we both have.”

Virgil’s not sure if he was meant to hear that last part, so he pretends he hasn’t. Instead, kneeling on the bed, he draws the curtains closed against the early morning light through the window, and then settles back down in bed. As a slightly anxious afterthought, after punching his pillow into submission, he lifts his head and looks over his shoulder at his little brother, lingering by the bedroom door. “…you’re sure you’ve got this?”

Gordon flips him the bird in response. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. John’s okay. Get some sleep, Virgil.”

“Thanks, Gordon.”


	21. Chapter 21

The first thing Virgil’s aware of, waking to early afternoon sunshine through the chink in the curtains he’d pulled across the window, is the smoky scent of bacon filling the small cottage. This means several things, the first and foremost of which is that Gordon’s managed to complete the round trip circuit to the grocery store, and he’s made it home with food. This leads to the conclusion is that his little brother is once again deliberately needling at Virgil’s supposed vegetarianism, probably frying up an entire pound of bacon for a late breakfast.

Virgil rolls over and fumbles at the bedside table for his phone, checks the time and find that he’s slept well past noon, and that it’s nearly a quarter to one. A  _very_  late breakfast. Virgil feels a twist of guilt in his gut at the thought of his little brother, struggling all the way home with enough groceries for the three of them—but it subsides quickly enough. Gordon rarely struggles through anything. And he  _had_  insisted, after all, because he’s stubborn and he relishes a challenge. And he’d been right, anyway. It wasn’t like they could have left John alone, any more than they could have dragged him into town.

Virgil sits up. Across the room, his elder brother is still fast asleep. Curled up in the other bed, John sleeps as though he’s trying to take up as little room as possible, with his long legs drawn up to his chest and his arms cinched tight around his pillow, his face buried against it. Virgil’s not sure why he does this. John’s almost as tall as Scott is, and Scott sprawls when he sleeps, long limbs taking up as much space as he feels he’s entitled to, that is to say,  _all of it_. Gordon’s the same way. Alan sleeps on the floor. Virgil sleeps on his stomach, though he’s been told this is bad for him. He doesn’t especially care, so long as it’s comfortable. Looking at him, Virgil wonders if John’s comfortable. He must be, sleeping as deeply as he is. Virgil suspects that he hasn’t actually  _moved_.

A few moments pass, watching his brother, and then dark suspicion turns slowly into awful certainty and certainty abruptly becomes  _dread_ , and Virgil bounds out of bed, across the room in a heartbeat to lean over his brother, though as soon as he grasps John’s shoulder it becomes obvious that he’s just sleeping. He curls up even tighter, resistant to the contact.

Virgil pauses, and for a moment he debates with himself about whether it’s worth waking John up—but only for a moment. He remembers something Gordon had said yesterday morning, about how if John was sleeping, then that meant John wasn’t awake and miserable. Virgil’s pretty sure that’s still preferable. He also can hardly believe that it was  _only_  yesterday. It feels like ages ago.

So. Day Three. Or Day One, depending upon whether or not relapses count. This is Monday, the third morning of spring break, the third morning he’s woken with the awareness that his brother is a drug addict, and the first morning of the first day of getting John through the worst of this.

Again.

He closes the door softly behind him, and sighs to himself. Then he pads down the hallway to join Gordon in the kitchen, and finds his little brother in his stockinged feet and jeans, still wearing John’s hoodie, its sleeves hitched up to his elbows again as he tends to a pan full of splattering bacon and flips silver-dollar pancakes onto a precariously stacked pile beside the stove. He gestures with his spatula to the pot of coffee brewing on the ccouner. “Mornin’, V. S'coffee. Sleep okay?”

“Yeah.”

“John?”

Virgil shakes his head. “Still out.”

Gordon nods again, affirmation this time. “Better leave him for now.”

“You say so.” Virgil crosses the small kitchen behind his brother and boosts himself up to sit on the counter. There’s not a lot of room, and he ends up sitting perilously close to the stovetop, but within reach of the coffee pot. Gordon hands him the mangy kitten mug from the night previous, and Virgil pours himself a cup of black coffee. This has been brewed strong enough that the ribbon of black from the carafe to the cup actually looks  _opaque_ , and Virgil squints suspiciously into the cup. “Uh. Is this—um. Am…am I gonna be okay, if I drink this?”

Gordon grins, reaches for his own mug from beside the stovetop, and gives a mocking little toast. “I dunno, man. I just kept putting coffee in the thingy. Like how Dad does. Don’t let John have any.”

Virgil puts his mug back down without taking even a cautious sip.

From where he sits, he can see across the living room and through the sliding glass door that leads out onto the back patio. Sunlight glitters off the ocean, as waves continue to roll towards the shore. It’s a beautiful day. On the back burner of the stove, a skillet full of bacon snaps and pops and smells incredible. There’s a carton of eggs waiting on the counter beside Gordon, and a plateful of pancakes sitting beneath a dishtowel on the other back burner. Virgil’s stomach growls. He sneaks a pancake off the plate, and it’s gone in a couple wolfish bites.

For a while the silence is companionable. It has the quality of a reprieve from all the heavy, serious talk of the weekend so far, and Virgil’s grateful that Gordon, occasionally, knows when to be quiet. He watches him, sips cautiously at his coffee, and listens as his little brother hums tunelessly to himself, an introspective little not-melody in a melancholy minor key.

And it could all be so nice. If it weren’t for the reality of their older brother, sleeping his way through drug withdrawal in the other room, this could be just exactly what Virgil had wanted. John and Gordon, hatchet buried. Spring break. Vacationing on the coast. Playing cards and talking about old times. Eating junk food and sleeping in. Getting along again, the way brothers should.

This train of thought is interrupted by the sudden explosion of the Imperial Death March, as Gordon’s phone comes to life in the front pocket of John’s hoodie.

“Ahh,  _shit_.” Gordon mutters this under his breath, freezes in the act of flipping pancakes. “You take it,” he orders, and dips his free hand into his pocket to retrieve the phone, holding it out as sinister brass continues to blare from the tiny tinny speakers. “ _Don’t_ ,” he adds, as Virgil drops down from sitting on the counter and takes the phone, “mention  _anything_  about John. Seriously.”

Virgil just rolls his eyes and answers the phone. “Hey, Dad. Uh, it’s Virgil.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the line. It’s a tendency of their father’s to never begin a conversation with anything like the word “hello”. And, true to form—

“Your brother hasn’t been answering his phone.”

Virgil’s not afraid of his father. That Gordon had even suggested the possibility had seemed preposterous, and Virgil had dismissed it out of hand—but there’s also a ring of disapproval in Jeff’s voice that Virgil’s never heard before, a rumble of thunder in his tone, heralding a storm. Virgil’s taken aback for a moment, before he remembers who he’s talking to, and reaches for a plausible explanation, “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Yeah, uh, John mentioned his reception was kind of lousy out here. I think that’s probably—”

“ _You_  haven’t been answering your phone either. I’ve been calling on and off for the past hour.”

Virgil’s phone was muted late last night, after the end of his conversation with Scott, and he’d forgotten about it until now. It’s still shoved under the pillow back in his bed. “Oh. I, uh, muted mine. We…uh…we were just hanging around and talking last night, and I—”

“If  _Gordon_  is my most reliable means of getting in touch with you and John, Virgil, then I’m not sure what I’m meant to think about the way your spring break is going, thus far.”

Virgil winces and shifts uncomfortably where he stands. “Sorry, sir.”

Dad doesn’t even acknowledge the apology, brusque as he continues, “I need to speak to your brother.”

“…to Gordon?” Virgil asks hopefully, though he very much doubts that their father actually wants to speak to Gordon, despite having called his phone. Gordon looks up from removing bacon from his cast iron skillet and quirks an eyebrow.

“To  _John_.” There’s irritation in the way he lays the emphasis on his son’s name, an impatience Virgil isn’t sure he’s ever heard before.

“Oh. Right. Uh, well—John’s…”

He trails off without meaning to, as his brain helpfully starts to supply a list of all the things he’s promised not to say— _A drug addict. In withdrawal. In trouble. Passed out in bed because he nearly wandered into the Atlantic at four in the morning. Really fucked up. Broken._

Virgil’s never been good at lying to their father. Gordon does it as easily as breathing. John, apparently, has raised the process to an art form. But Virgil’s bad at it, and his tongue ties itself in knots as he starts to stammer, tripping over the truth he can’t tell. He stops, clears his throat, and tries again, “W- _well_ , uh. John’s—”

Suddenly, mercifully maybe, Gordon intervenes. He plucks the phone neatly out of Virgil’s hand and cradles it against his shoulder, pins it against his ear, and promptly—glibly and gleefully—starts to lie his ass off. “Yeah, Dad, hi. S'Gordon. What the big guy isn’t saying is that him and John are both, like,  _massively_ hungover. Well. That is;  _Virgil’s_  hungover. John’s still sleeping. …Yeah, we went out last night. Hit up a bar. I ate, like,  _forty_  buffalo wings.  _Right_  in front of Virgil’s uppity vegan ass. It was great. —Yeeeahh. Well…but it’s spring break, y'know? Anyway. They drank; I drove. Bought a fifth of whiskey to bring back to this little cottagey type place. J and V continued; I  _behaved_. Played cards. Sat around. Talked. D'you know, Dad, about how drunk people are  _lousy company_  when you’re sober? Drunk John thinks he’s  _funny_. The only thing that’s funny about Drunk John is that he  _also_  thinks he can dance.”

Gordon falls abruptly silent and with the headche this is going to give him, Virgil actually imagines that he  _does_  have a hangover. His palm hits his forehead and he groans at his little brother and his unnecessary theatricality. This is a can of worms. This is an unfortunate reminder of the truth he’d learned about their grandfather—the truth he’s not supposed to know. He can only imagine what their father has to say about the absolute nonsense that Gordon’s just concocted, spun up out of nothing.

But when Gordon speaks again, his voice is softer, gentler than it had been, as he says, “…no, Dad, I didn’t. Honest. I didn’t have anything to drink last night. I know I said I wouldn’t, so I didn’t. Promise.”

He sounds  _sincere_ , almost. If Virgil weren’t expecting him to lie, he’d almost want to believe him. He catches himself holding his breath while he waits to see if Gordon’s going to get away with it—but then he remembers, that’s the truth.

Some of the spin comes back as Gordon goes on, blithe and unconcerned, “And if you still don’t believe me, you can ask Virgil—hell, you can ask  _John_. Things aren’t so patched up between him and me that he wouldn’t still get a kick outta throwing me under the bus—except he  _can’t_ , because I didn’t  _do anything_. I swear. And also he can’t because he’s still sleeping and I’m being nice and letting him. I  _could_  go in there and bang a pair of pot lids together until he gets up and tries to kill me, but I’m  _not_. I’m making  _pancakes_ , even. See! That’s wholesome, right? You should be very proud of me.”

There’s another pause, and then Gordon breaks into a grin. “Yessir. Will do, sir. Yeah. Yeah, uh huh. Right. Right, yup. I’ll tell him. Yeah. Yeah, that too. I’ll have him call you when he’s vertical again. Uh, but maybe don’t…uh, hey, Dad? Don’t be too hard on him. I think he’s been pretty stressed lately. I think he needed the break. Didn’t do any harm that a couple aspirin and like, a couple gallons of water won’t cure. He’ll be okay. …Haha.  _Ha_. Right? Yeah, right. Okay. I’ll talk to you—oh, hmm? Oh…uh. Umm. Yeah? Yeah, just a sec. Here.”

The phone gets handed back to Virgil, who takes it, a little bit dumbfounded by the sheer  _nerve_  his little brother posesses, how easily and  _elaborately_  he lies to their father. And how readily their father seems to believe him, because that’s the first thing Jeff says, “You’re  _very_  lucky that your brother’s been behaving himself.”

Virgil knows this better than his father could possibly imagine, because he finds himself nodding in vigorous agreement, forgetting that his father can’t see him. “Yes. Yessir.”

“I hope you hadn’t planned on  _too_  much more binge drinking over the rest of the week.”

His father’s sarcasm has an acerbic bite to it, and knowing a truth he isn’t supposed to, Virgil winces. “No, uh. No, Dad, we’re not gonna…um…do that. Anymore. Uh. Again. It’s—it’s just like what Gordon said, it’s just…it’s John. He’s just kinda…I guess he’s just been kinda stressed out? Uh, with…just with school. And everything.”

The silence on the other end of the line is agonizing, and Virgil becomes aware of the fact that Gordon’s staring at him, eyes wide, like this wasn’t what he’d expected. He’s drained the bacon grease from his skillet off into a waiting mug, and he pauses in the act of wiping out the inside of it with a paper towel, to mouth the word “ _Careful_ ”.

Virgil nods, and he’s  _being_  careful, but he can’t remember the last time he did anything—or  _pretended_  to do anything—that would have earned his father’s disapproval. It’s a profoundly unfamliar and uncomfortable sensation, and he feels distinctly like a worm wriggling on the end of a hook. His father’s never been a fisherman, and in this case is probably more aptly compared to a shark, circling in the depths of an uncomfortably lengthening silence.

When Jeff finally speaks, his voice is deceptively quiet, “And you thought the best solution to that particular problem was to bring home a fifth of whiskey?”

“Nnn-no? Uh,  _no_. I didn’t—”

“Gordon just told me you did.”

Fucking  _Gordon_. Virgil glowers at him and backtracks, “—well, I guess, yeah. Uh. Yes, sir. I mean—”

Jeff ignores him and continues, “This isn’t something I would  _ever_  expect from John, which leads me to the conclusion that it was  _your_  initiative. I’m not sure why you felt it was something he’d benefit from.”

This is definitely Gordon’s fault, for putting Virgil on the spot and expecting him to be able to carry the lie. To their  _father_ , of all people. He panics, mentally scrambles for an excuse, and comes up with—

“—It was Scott’s idea?”

There’s another beat of incredulous silence. “What’s  _Scott_  got to do with this? Scott is in  _Kandahar_.”

This conversation is a  _trainwreck_. Gordon’s actually gaping at him, still holding his skillet. He’s actually hefting it in one hand now, holding it up like he expects to have to hit Virgil with it. Virgil gives him a look of helpless desperation and shakes his head as he goes on, his voice speeding up on him, anxiously trying to keep up with the lie. He attempts to give it a little backbone by sprinkling in some of the truth. “Y-yeah. No—I mean, it’s just that I texted him to let him know that I was gonna be in Boston for spring break and to ask if he had any ideas about what we should do, a-and—he said I should take John out, see if I could get him to relax, loosen up a bit—”

“And this was a suggestion you felt was worth taking? Driving out to Martha’s Vineyard and getting John so drunk that he’s  _still_  dead to the world at half past one in the afternoon on Monday? If Scott told you to push your brother off a  _bridge_ , would you have thought that sounded like an intriguing proposal?”

Virgil cringes. Gordon seems to be seriously contemplating whether or not a sudden concussion might be a merciful end to the mess Virgil’s talked himself into. “Well…”

His father’s sigh is impatient and exasperated and Virgil shuts up immediately. “ _Please_ , ignore any futher attempts on Scott’s part to relive his collegial career by proxy. John’s responsible for maintaining a certain—reputation—at Harvard. It’s a minor mercy that you left the city before you decided it was the appropriate time for a  _bender_.”

“It wasn’t a  _bender_ —” Virgil’s unclear on why he feels so guilty as he protests his innocence, when it’s over something he absolutely hasn’t done. “Dad, honestly—”

Neither the impatience nor the exasperation have diminished from Jeff’s voice, and his tone is clipped and brusque as he decides the conversation is at an end. “I don’t especially want to hear it, Virgil. Don’t do it again. Apologize to your brother—to  _both_  your brothers. Considering  _his_  history, it’s deeply unfair to Gordon to ask him to be responsible for the both of you while you’re drinking. I’d better not hear about anything like this again. I expect you to set a better example than this.”

“…right.” Virgil gives up. Possibly this is what his father’s been waiting for. He shakes his head to himself, tries to sound humble and contrite as he apologizes for something he hasn’t done, “…I’m sorry, Dad.”

There’s a soft huff of breath that’s the closest he’ll get to an acknowledgment of the apology. “Don’t apologize to  _me_. Have John call me when he’s feeling better. Good-bye, Virgil.”

The call disconencts. Virgil hands Gordon’s phone back to him. Gordon returns his skillet to the stovetop and very deliberately puts his phone down on the counter, then turns to stare at Virgil. He still looks mildly ridiculous in John’s oversized hoodie, but his expression is caught between horror and bewilderment. “What the hell was  _that_? Have you had a fucking  _stroke_?”

Virgil folds his arms across his chest, defensiveness masking the sudden tightness of anxiety in his chest, the unpleasant twist in the pit of his stomach. He’d been starting to get hungry, before. He’s lost his appetite now. “I didn’t know what to say,” he tells Gordon. “I’m not—I’m bad at lying to Dad.”

“Yeah,  _no shit_. Holy  _fuck_ , Virg.” Gordon rubs at eyes for a moment, then pushes his fingers through his hair. “It’s a good thing he thinks you’re hungover, because on this end it sounded like you’d had a goddamn head injury. Jesus.”

Virgil shakes his head again, still shaken by the impact of their father’s disappoint, even in something he hasn’t actually done. “I can’t actually remember the last time he got mad at me.”

Gordon seems unimpressed by this and scoffs. “Oh, brother, you ain’t seen  _nothin’_. If you can’t remember the last time Dad was mad at you, then Dad hasn’t ever actually,  _really_  been mad at you. Trust me, it leaves a mark. A scorch mark. On the carpet. Where you were standing. Because he vaporized you with his paternal laser eyes.”

Virgil wants to protest, wants to point to an example of a point in time when he’s been called up in the carpet, given the same kind of hell that Gordon’s caught from their father across a long history of colourful fuckups—but he comes up blank. He tries to remember if any of his brothers  _other_  than Gordon have ever been on the receiving end of a real, life-altering sort of tirade from their father. If Virgil hasn’t, then John  _definitely_  hasn’t. Alan’s too young to have done anything  _really_  serious, and anyway, he’s a good kid. He has hazy memories of Scott, late in his adolescence, storming out of their father’s office and past Virgil’s bedroom door, with his face red and his eyes bright, and Virgil had never known why. He’d been too scared to ask, then. It’s not a surprising thing to remember about Scott, but it makes him realize—

“That’s gonna happen to John?”

Gordon’s returned to the stove, turned the heat back up beneath the griddle. He drops a pat of butter onto the surface and it sizzles and hisses, bubbling across the surface as he reaches for his carton of eggs. “Yeah,” he affirms, and his voice is uncharacteristically quiet. He doesn’t look up from what he’s doing. “If he tells Dad, it’s gonna be about a million times worse.”

It hasn’t been said in such a way as to draw attention to it, but Virgil still imagines an emphasis laid on the ’ _if_ ’ part of the statement. “But he’s  _gotta_  tell Dad. If he doesn’t, Gordon—if he won’t or if he just can’t—then I think  _we_  have to.”

Gordon doesn’t answer, and instead starts cracking eggs onto the top of the griddle. “Sunny side up, V-card?” he asks instead, changing his tone and abruptly changing the subject, like he’s pretending he hasn’t heard. “I ate a helluva a lotta eggs back when I was still serious about swimming, I’m pretty much a pro. I can make a real French omelette, even.”

“Gordie, I know you heard me.”

He sees Gordon wince at the use of the nickname, which only ever comes out when things are getting particularly personal between them. He sticks to his guns and drifts back to lean against the counter beside the stove, as he goes on, “He needs help, little brother.  _Real_  help. I know we’re gonna do our best, and I know we’ve got a few days to get him through the worst of it—but it won’t be enough, will it? He’ll still be in bad shape. And we just can’t let him be alone again, we can’t let him go back to Boston by himself. Someone has to do something.”

It’s hard to have to be the voice of reason against Gordon’s particular brand of determined optimism, because for all his brightness and positivity, Gordon’s not an idiot, and he’s not immune to rational arguments. His shoulders fall slightly and he sighs to himself. “Yeah. I mean…yeah. I just—God, Virgil. I don’t know if he’ll be able to take it. Telling Dad. I just—I don’t even know what their relationship is like? Can’t be that great if John’s been silently suffering his way through Harvard for the past two years. And he’s obviously not gonna be himself, but then, he hasn’t  _been_  himself for like a goddamn year and a half. I keep thinking about it—the guy I’ve hated for the past couple years wasn’t our brother. You know? Like…John couldn’t cope. John went away somewhere, and whatever was left behind was just someone who sort of looks like him, loosely strung together by a combo of Dad’s expectations and sixty fucking milligrams of Adderall a day.”

Virgil hesitates, and then tentatively, “Dad’s not responsible for—”

“ _Don’t_.” By the tone of Gordon’s voice, this is a rant that’s been waiting to happen. “Do  _not_  go leaping to Dad’s defense here. Just because it’s never been hard for  _you_  to measure up, that doesn’t mean trying to do the same hasn’t been killing our brother. I know you don’t get it. I know you don’t know what it’s like to be scared of the man, and buddy, more power to you, because our father is one of the scariest people on the goddamn planet.”

That’s just blatantly crossing a line, but Virgil still tries to keep his tone even, moderate, as he says, “I think that’s an exaggeration—”

“ _No._ ” Gordon shakes his head, and he’s still got that edge of vehemence in his voice as he interrupts again, “It’s not. Not for John. Not for me, either. I mean—fuck, honestly? A tiny, irrational little part of me doesn’t actually  _want_  him to tell Dad, because even if he  _does_  need help,  _I’m_  shit-scared of what’s gonna happen to  _me_. If Dad finds out I knew this about John and didn’t tell him  _immediately_ —I don’t know. I like to hope that he’s gonna appreciate my reasons, but I…I just, I dunno, man. Sometimes I talk to Dad and it’s like I wasted so much time, treating him like my  _father_  instead of my  _dad_. Sometimes we really click, and he really gets me, and I wonder how I was ever scared of him. And then sometimes I say something or I do something or get a little too close to  _The Line_  and all of a sudden I’m on  _extremely_  thin ice, and there’s just nothing beneath it. Like if I screw up just once, that’ll be it. And it’s not ‘cuz of the way things are  _now_ , it’s because of the way things went back when I really fucked up. He threatened to throw me out of the family and then gave me a week and a half on my own to really  _think_  about that. Like I said, V. It leaves a mark.”

This is the first time Virgil’s heard any of this. It’s not quite another family secret, but it does call up a similar sensation; guilt churning and roiling through his gut at the thought that this is something he didn’t know about Gordon and the way he feels about their father. He talks to Gordon even more often than he talks to Scott, and Gordon’s never been shy about sharing his feelings. “You’ve never told me that.”

Gordon shrugs, flips over a fried egg. “Telling you now.”

Virgil shakes his head. “He wouldn’t do that to John. I  _know_  he wouldn’t, Dad’s not…he’s not a supervillain. When it happened with you, Dad had to straighten you out because you were being a  _shithead_  and you were gonna drink yourself into a coma or get yourself smothered at an orgy or some other awful fucking thing. Dad came down hard on you because he had to, because that’s the only thing that  _works_. But John—John’s—he’s sick. Right? ’ _Addiction is a disease_ ’, or whatever. It’s not his fault that things got this bad, he needs help. It’s obvious he needs help. Whatever else he does, Dad will make sure he gets it. He’s our father and he loves us. I know you know that, Gordie, even with whatever else is true.”

Gordon nods, moodily peels four fried eggs off the surface of the griddle and starts to distribute them onto plates on the counter. “Yeah. I know. I  _know that_ , and I don’t disagree. It’s just…you talk about telling Dad, and my throat just locks up. I think about going into his office again and telling him something like this—I can’t believe a week ago I would’ve been  _thrilled_  to get to tell Dad something like this, about John.  _Now_ —even just thinking of it makes me feel fucking  _awful_. Our poor fucking brother. I wish none of this had happened to him. He doesn’t deserve it.”

With everything else that’s happened, it’s hard to remember that this was the objective. This is why Virgil brought Gordon out to the coast in the first place, hoping for a reconcilliation. Actually, the best he’d hoped for was a mutual cessation of hostilities. He’d hoped to be able to talk the both of them into agreeing to at least be civil towards each other, as a bare minimum. He hadn’t dared to dream of anything like getting Gordon to admit that he still cares about their big brother. Or getting John to admit that he still wants Gordon in his life. Scott hadn’t believed it would happen. Virgil’s pretty sure he won’t believe the circumstances under which it did.

 _Not_ , crucially, that he plans to tell Scott.

…or anyway, not until John’s told Dad.

But before he can say anything, Gordon continues. He sounds tired and rather older than his years as he goes on, “Honestly, Virg, I don’t think I could do it. I don’t think I could tell Dad. I hope John can. I think he should, because you’re right. Dad would help. He’d be mad as  _fuck_ —but we’re his sons and he loves us even when we  _really_  fuck up and he’d help. And we need Dad’s help, whatever we have to do to get it. If that means ratting John out—”

And the solution comes to Virgil like a strike of lightning, a bolt from the blue. Pure inspiration, and a sort of unfortunately necessary genius. “If it means ratting John out, then  _I’ll_  do it,” he declares. “You don’t have to do anything. Hell, you can set yourself up with an alibi, plausible deniability, and I’ll just do it. Just me. You and him are finally getting along again, I’m sure as shit not blowing that all to hell by having you rat him out to Dad. I’ve been tattling on the rest of you since before I could even  _talk_. Turns out it was good practice.”

He’s not joking, so he doesn’t expect Gordon to laugh, but he does. It’s a surprised sort of sound, a little bark of laughter, like he hadn’t expected to find anything funny about this conversation either. “You think the worst you did was  _tattle_  on us? You fucker, you wrote 'wash me’ in the dirt on the side of Scott’s first car and scratched the paint, but he beat the tar out of  _me_  because you signed  _my fucking name_. And you know what? Even after  _that_ , I never told him it was you!”

Despite the circumstances, Virgil grins. “Because that was pretty good, though, right?”

“It was fucking  _brilliant_ , you asshole, I couldn’t even be  _mad_.” Gordon starts to distribute breakfast onto the plates he’s starting to prepare. He adds about three hundred dollars worth of silver dollar pancakes to Virgil’s plate, and about half a pound of bacon, before Virgil can protest. “D'you wanna know something  _else_ —”

There’s a creak of the floorboards down the hallway, and both Virgil and Gordon freeze and fall abruptly silent, like they’ve been caught at something. Shuffling footsteps follow, and then John wanders into the kitchen, and neither Virgil nor Gordon manage to react. This probably isn’t the best way to respond to their elder brother’s sudden appearance, bleary-eyed and tousle-haired and a little unsteady on his feet, with one hand on the wall and the other rubbing at the back of his neck. He has a faintly bewildered expression, like he hadn’t expected to find his brothers here either, and a peculiar moment of stillness passes between the three of them.

Virgil and Gordon exchange the sort of quick, meaningful glance they’ve been trading for almost all their lives. If they have to talk about John again, they’ll talk about him later. There are more important things to deal with now. Virgil hands his plate back to Gordon, and reaches out to snap his fingers in John’s face. “You awake, Jaybird?” he queries.

John’s response is to shove Virgil’s hand away and then to rub his eyes, yawning. “Everything hurts,” he answers dully, in lieu of anything like good morning, or good afternoon, as the case may actually be. “And I’m tired. And starving. And I wanna die.”

“Well, we’re gonna work on that.”

Virgil pats his shoulder, and Gordon reaches out and redistributes Virgil’s breakfast, nudging John in the rib cage with the plate until he reaches up and takes it. “C'mon, sunshine,” he says, and gives John’s elbow a tug, starts to lead him over to the dining room table. “Day one. First day of the rest of your life, Johnny. Let’s get it going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue in five parts is forthcoming, thank you so much for reading.


	22. Chapter 22

A few minutes later, and the three of them are sitting around the dining room table, passing the syrup around and sitting down to an early afternoon breakfast. John and Gordon sit opposite each other, while Virgil sits at the head of the table, nursing a cup of terrible coffee, already having demolished his stack of pancakes and a four egg omelette, stuffed with cheese. Beside him, Gordon reaches over with his still-sticky knife and carves a substantial divot of softening butter from the remaining half-stick in the butter dish. He stretches a little further and dollops this onto the top of John’s serving of pancakes, still sitting untouched on his plate beside a similarily disregarded half pound of bacon and a pair of fried eggs. Gordon clears his throat and taps the back edge of his knife against a still full glass of orange juice. “C'mon, Johnny,” he coaxes, “You gotta eat  _something_ , okay? You’ll feel better.”

John just shakes his head.

It’s not surprising that he’s quiet, but it seems troubling that he isn’t eating. Yesterday morning, presented with a very similar breakfast, John had been nothing less than  _ravenous_. Like Gordon’s lasagna the night before and the snacks from the gas station only a few hours later, it had been a harsh reminder of the fact that he’s functionally been starving himself, but there’s no sign of the same appetite now. Virgil shifts where he sits and deliberately takes a closer look at his older brother—who has his elbows resting on the table and his arms folded atop it. John keeps his eyes lowered, doesn’t react, or even seem to notice that he’s being scrutinized. Watching him carefully, Virgil catches it when he glances over his shoulder. His gaze flickers back down to the tabletop, but it isn’t long before he steals another glance. His body language is rigid, tense. Something’s wrong, but it’s not immediately obvious what it is.

Virgil shoots Gordon a  _look_  and kicks him beneath the table, though if  _he_  can tell something’s going on, then Gordon’s probably already on high alert.

But before either of them can say anything, John looks up, and anything either of them  _might_  have said dissolves into thin air, words of well-intentioned concern that dissipate at the sight of their brother’s face.

It’s possible—probable, even—that this is the lowest point of John’s life so far. Virgil’s never seen his brother this broken, or at least, never this broken about anything their family hadn’t shared together. Their mother’s death is unequivocally one of the worst things any of them have or ever will have to go through, but at least they’d all hurt the same way, at the same time, and they’d been there for each other. Whatever John’s going through now—Virgil can see it happening, can see it hurting him, but he can’t feel it himself. Can’t shoulder any of the same pain by sharing it, doesn’t have any of the relevant experiences to empathize the way Gordon can. The only thing he can do is look at his brother and know, even as the words “ _are you okay_ ” die on his tongue, that something’s really,  _really_  wrong.

But when John finally speaks, he sounds almost normal. There’s a sort of strangely steady, incredibly taut sort of composure in his voice, as he says, “I have to ask a question.”

Virgil straightens at the sound of his voice. Gordon hears it, too, and there’s a cautious sort of brightness to him as he answers, “Sure, Johnny.”

And again with that weirdly neutral tone, like he’s forcing himself to keep calm, John continues, “I know the answer, but I still have to ask.”

Virgil’s sitting up in his chair, nearer to John than Gordon is. Gordon sits with his chair twisted to the side, and he slouches when he sits, so that he’s leaning away from their brother and has to straighten up to hear him. Virgil’s close enough to hear his quick, shuddering intake of breath, and the tremor in his voice as he asks, “Is there…i-is someone standing by the door?”

The door to the cottage is to John’s left, but it’s right in front of Virgil and he immediately looks up, peers through the paned window on the upper half of the door. There’s no one there. Virgil can’t imagine anyone who’d come look in on them, either, all the other cottages they’d passed on their way out had been empty. The end of March on the northeastern coast doesn’t exactly provide vacation weather. Half the reason they’re out here is for the solitude of the place. “No? Did you hear someone knock?”

John shakes his head again, and the obvious answer doesn’t seem to satisfy him, and what he says next is borderline nonsensical. “Not…not outside,” he clarifies, and then falls abruptly silent. His arms resting folded on the tabletop tighten and draw in to wrap tightly around his chest, anxious and protective. “Do you…see…anyone? Anything?”

Virgil doesn’t quite know how to parse that statement. There’s no one there, inside or outside, so Virgil’s not sure what there is to see—there’s not even anything like a coat rack or an oddly cast shadow to mistake for a person. He doesn’t even know how to interpret his brother’s behaviour, outside of the recognition that something’s wrong, upsetting him. Gordon hasn’t said anything, but he’s been watching, and his gaze is sharp enough to cut glass, though he keeps his voice light. He’s gentle and almost casual as he asks, “John, do  _you_  see someone?”

There’s no one there, but John still nods, just once, and then closes his eyes and curls further inward, shrinking away from whatever he sees out of the corner of his eye, over his shoulder and behind him, shadowy and nonexistent and plainly terrifying. Virgil’s stomach drops and he has no one to look to but Gordon, whose expression has taken on an uncharacteristically grim cast, a hardening of his brown eyes and a stubborn set of his jaw, something ferocious lurking inside him. It’s gone in a flash, and his expression softens.

“Okay,” his younger brother says, still relentlessly gentle. He gets up and pulls his chair around to John’s side of the table, sits down beside him. He wraps an arm around John’s narrow shoulders, halfway to a hug and the most substantial contact John’s tolerated from Gordon since this whole nightmare started. “It’s okay,” he repeats, and rubs the palm of his hand up and down his brother’s spine, reassuring as he states the obvious, “Johnny, there’s no one there.”

And there’s an immeasurable amount of heartbreak in John’s voice, when he whispers, “I know.”

“That’s kinda not amazing, John. I gotta be honest. It’s kind of pretty bad.”

Virgil straightens up at this, at the first indication from Gordon that there might be some cause for concern here. He’s been gauging his own reactions based on Gordon’s, and this is the first time that Gordon’s given him any reason to be worried. John hasn’t said anything, and Virgil doesn’t know  _what_  to say, and the pair of them are two very different types of silent. Eventually Gordon sighs and drops his forehead to rest against John’s shoulder.

“Well,” he says, and sounds more subdued than usual, maybe almost worried. “Not sure what to do about that one, Jaybird. I guess we’re gonna give it a couple hours, while we wait and see.”


	23. Chapter 23

A few hours later, and John’s folded up in the armchair in the corner of the living room, staring out the window at a flat grey sky and the stormy grey sea beneath it. The sunshine of the early afternoon has gradually been swathed in cloud cover, and now the the day slowly closes. This time Virgil’s the one in the kitchen, carefully adjusting the seasoning of a pot of homemade (vegan) tomato soup, a big batch to help fill in any gaps over the course of the week. Gordon sits cross legged on the couch with his laptop, busily pirating the all seventy-eight hours and forty-one minutes of the modern Star Wars cinematic canon. Episode V plays on the TV in the corner of the living room, but quietly and with subtitles, because John has a headache.

Other than that, he seems okay, all things considered. Virgil’s not sure if he’s still seeing things; he’s left Gordon to manage that one. For his part, Virgil’s done the dishes and made beds and had a shower, planned out a few meals and started to make his tomato soup. Gordon’s been pretty much exclusively on babysitting duty, presumably to help make up for bailing as early as he had last night.

Not that their brother really needs much attention. Last time around, in the first stages of withdrawal, he’d been belligerent, argumentative. Now he’s just quiet, listless and absent, and seems to resist all attempts at engagement. It’s less stressful, but maybe more concerning.

Virgil, for his part, is paying attention to his soup, not that it needs much attention. Their mom used to make tomato soup with a side of grilled cheese. He doesn’t have her recipe—doesn’t know if there even  _was_  one—but his version is close enough for comfort food, and he can put it together easily enough from scratch, even if it’s the sort of scratch his little brother brings home. Gordon’s not the sort of person who makes a list to go shopping, so much as he just goes shopping and comes back with whatever took his fancy. Admittedly, he’s a better cook than Virgil is. But Virgil would rather that Gordon deal with John right now, and making dinner is a small price to pay.

He turns from the stove to whistle softly at his little brother, summoning him over. Gordon looks up from his screen and then over to John, before setting his laptop down on the coffee table and unpretzeling his limbs. It’s a short trip from the living room to the kitchen, and John doesn’t seem to notice Gordon’s departure anyway. Nominally, Virgil’s called him over to taste the soup and to start buttering bread for grilled cheese sandwiches, but as Gordon comes up to the counter, Virgil lowers his voice and asks, “So how is he?”

Gordon just shrugs and takes the spoon that Virgil offers him, takes a spoonful of soup to try. His voice is similarly hushed as he says, “I mean, you can see him. That’s how he is. He’s  _that_. That’s about the best we can hope for.”

“Is he still…?”

“Still…?”

“Uh, still…” He risks a glance over his shoulder, and his voice drops further, so that he’s practically mouthing the words, as he asks,  _seeing shit_?“

Gordon shakes his head and turns from the stove to the fridge, starts to rummage around. He turns back with butter, cheese, a carton of cream and a jar of mayonnaise, and sets this assembly out beside the loaf of bread that waits on the cutting board. "Dunno. Haven’t asked. Just trying to keep him distracted.”

Virgil nods. Gordon takes over at the stove and Virgil leans casually against the counter, where he can get a better look at their older brother, not that there’s much to see. He looks back back in time to catch Gordon dumping half a carton of heavy cream into the simmering pot of soup. “Dude!” he protests immediately, and then looks guiltily across the room, but not even this exclamation is enough to get John’s attention. He peers at the Rorschach splotch of bright white dairy in the middle of his soup, disappointed. “Man, what the hell, that was  _vegan_.”

Gordon ignores his outrage and starts to stir the soup, takes it from a deep, rich red to a pale, faded orange. “Yeah, and our brother is a fuckin’  _scarecrow_ , so we’re  _not_  gonna be feeding him what’s basically  _vegetable water_ , because  _he_  is malnourished, and  _I_  am terrified of scarecrows. Also, I bet anything you are gonna eat like, at  _least_  six grilled cheese sandwiches, so I’m not sure where the vegan thing really matters? You asshole?”

“It’s just the principle.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Gordon’s moved in front of the stove and has taken over in the kitchen, apparently. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder into the living room. “Go chill with John.”

Virgil doesn’t really want to do that, but he doesn’t have a good excuse not to. So he pushes himself off the counter and crosses back into the living room. There’s a round ottoman at the foot of John’s chair, not that he’s using it, curled up as he is. Virgil sits himself down, as instructed. When John doesn’t pay him any notice, he clears his throat, then reaches up to tap a fingertip gently on his brother’s kneecap. “Hey, Johnny,” he says, when a pair of liquid green eyes tear themselves away from the sea outside the window, and John turns to face him. “Hungry?”

John shrugs. “I’m tired,” he answers dully, though whether he’s too tired to be hungry isn’t immediately obvious.

Attempting to take his cues from Gordon, Virgil just rolls with it. “Well, you don’t have to get up or anything, J. I’ll bring you a mug, it’s just soup. It was vegan, but then Gordon got into it.”

John probably doesn’t have an opinion about this, but before he can say anything either way, there’s a brisk buzzing noise from the front pocket of his hoodie and he starts slightly. He he starts to reach into for his phone, but remembering something, Virgil reaches out to catch his wrist before he can pull it out. There’s a jarring fragment of a moment where he feels the ridges of his brother’s bones beneath his skin, but then he feels the phone buzz in John’s hand again, and tells him, “Uh. John, if it’s Dad—um, he called. Earlier. Like, don’t freak out or anything, it’s fine. Gordon told him that me and you went out last night, and today we’re just  _really_  hungover. So like, if it’s him, then he probably expects you to be kind of out of it. It’s fine, though. Okay?”

He lets John go, but it takes a moment for John to move, frozen up at the mention of their father. When he stirs out of stillness as his phone buzzes again, he’s still slow and cautious. He pulls the device from his pocket gingerly, like he’s dreading what comes next. He peers at the screen with a blank expression, and then pulls his phone all the way out, shifts slightly to hold it in both hands, though as it buzzes again, he doesn’t answer it. Instead he answers the question Virgil hasn’t asked, hollow and numb, “It’s Alan.”

Virgil blinks. “…Oh. Well—”

The phone buzzes again, a sixth time by Virgil’s count, insistent. John doesn’t react, except to stare fixedly at the screen, lit up with a picture of their baby brother, blond and blue-eyed and fifteen years old, beaming unabashedly at whoever’d been on the other side of the camera. The call continues to ring through, and John continues not to answer it.

Virgil hesitates, then starts to hold a hand out, starts to offer to deal with this on John’s behalf—but then the call drops. The buzzing stops and Alan’s picture vanishes, as the screen goes dark, except for for a bright red alert that informs John he has one missed call. John turns the screen off, returns his phone to his pocket, and then resumes staring out the window.

Virgil knows better than to make him feel worse about this than he already does. But privately he wonders how long it’s going to be before Alan hears from John again; how many more days his calls will go unanswered.

He gets up, without a further word, and goes back to helping Gordon in the kitchen.


	24. Chapter 24

A few days later, the three of them are in Los Angeles, and it’s over.

All told, it’s gone better than what Virgil expected. Dad’s mad, sure, but it hadn’t been towering, terrifying rage. He’d been disappointed and he’d been stern, but nothing worse than that. At least not for Virgil and Gordon.

John’s still in their father’s office when Virgil’s allowed in, still just sitting in front of Dad’s desk. Gordon hangs back for the last of some exchange with their father, but Virgil darts through the door and strides briskly across the polished concrete afloor to his elder brother’s side. He puts a hand on John’s shoulder when he doesn’t look up, gives a gentle squeeze. “You did it,” he says, unnecessarily. And then, with unmistakable awe in his voice, he adds, “ _God_ , that must’ve been hard. I can’t even imagine.”

John doesn’t answer, except to nod mutely, and Virgil feels him shudder at the mere mention of what he’s just done. His grip on John’s shoulder tightens and he has to resist the impulse to crouch down and just  _hug_  his brother, because it seems like John could use it. He knows better than to cross that boundary uninvited, but the impulse is still there. It leaves him with an ache across his shoulders and a tightness in his chest, as a great surging swell of empathy rises up on John’s behalf.

“I can’t believe I did it,” John says, hollow and blank. “I don’t know  _how_  I did it.”

“But you  _did_ ,” Virgil repeats, and then looks up as the office door swings open again, and Gordon slips inside, escaping their father. Dad’s office is a big space, longer than it is wide, with a long window stretching along the length of it, a panoramic view of the LA skyline. Virgil wisely steps aside as Gordon practically sprints across the office, and demonstrates nothing even remotely like restraint. He gives into the same impulse Virgil had resisted, throwing his arms around John and butting his forehead against his shoulder, ferocious in affection.

John’s never really been one for hugs, especially when unsolicited, but this one seems like it’s happened at just the right time to move him to a minor gesture of his own. He lifts a hand to pat Gordon’s arm, and Gordon hugs him even tighter. A little caught up in the moment by proxy, Virgil reaches out to ruffle Gordon’s hair.

“Holy  _shit_ , I am  _so_  goddamn proud of you.” Gordon’s voice is muffled slightly, until he lifts his face. “ _Seriously_ , John.” He clears his throat and lets John go, straightening up. John might not notice when their little brother quickly palms tears out of his eyes, but Virgil does, and then judiciously pretends he doesn’t. Gordon coughs and goes on, “And if Dad’s a hardass about this whole situation, Johnny, then he’s gonna have to answer to  _me_. I’ll beat him up. I’ll goddamn kick his ass.”

Virgil scoffs at this, gives Gordon a gentle shove, because it’s absolutely and utterly preposterous. “Tough talk, tiny.”

Gordon folds his arms and puffs up his chest. “Ain’t nobody picks on  _my_  brother, not even if it’s my dad.”

Virgil sighs. “A week ago  _you_  were the leading authority in picking on our brother.”

“Yeah, so it’s my turf, and Dad can stay the hell off it.”

They’re just goofing around, the pair of them, maybe trying to lighten the mood around their brother, because though their father’s office is brimming with California sunshine, John sits in a shadow all his own. He doesn’t seem to be paying either of them any attention. An aspirin bottle sits innocuously in the center of Dad’s desk. There’s only one pill in it. Gordon had gotten rid of the rest, but kept just the one, and had given the bottle back to John when they’d landed in LA. A smoking gun, as it were, the same damning evidence that Gordon had found in the first place. So John would have something to show their father, a talking point. Visual aid. Concrete proof.

And John reaches for it, picks it up off the desktop.

If Virgil had been planning to say anything further, the words die on his lips. His blood goes cold, the way he supposes it always will when he sees John with a pill bottle in hand. He freezes where he stands as John idly plays with the childproof cap, his thumb twisting the lid back and forth so that it clicks softly, back and forth, but doesn’t open.

It’s Virgil’s immediate impulse to take this from him. It’s the same pill bottle that had started the whole mess; the one Gordon had found, the one Virgil  _wouldn’t_  have. There’s only one single pill left inside, and all told, it’s probably not enough to actually do John any serious harm. One single hit, another few hours’ high, one last little spike of chemically altered brilliance. Just one pill.

Except it’s more than that. The way the sight of it shocks ice through Virgil’s veins is because of everything it’s done to his brother, everything it represents. One pill might not really hurt his brother that much more, but everything that’s come before it has hurt him so much already. It’s robbed the flesh from him, left his wrists narrow and rawboned; his face gaunt and his eyes hollow. His hands look almost arthritic, with the way his knuckles stand out between the bones, the way his veins are blue beneath the paleness of his skin. John used to have such perfect hands. He used to be handsome and healthy and happy. Virgil doesn’t know how he hadn’t seen the difference when he’d first gotten to Boston. It’s almost all he can think of now.

Thinking about it that way, it’s not hard to parse the visceral sense of dread that twists through him, at the sight of a simple pill bottle, with one single pill rattling around the emptiness inside.

But while Virgil’s trying to figure out how to tell John that he should probably hand the little bottle over, John surprises him. Unprompted, without a word, he holds it out to Gordon.

And Gordon doesn’t take it. There’s a moment’s pause, and Virgil watches the pair of them, looking at each other. Whatever passes between them then is something that Virgil’s not a part of, something he can’t share, and can only observe from the outside. That’s been true about a lot of what’s happened in the week they’ve had. Virgil’s lucky that he really doesn’t mind.

And he knows he’s lucky to see what happens next, when Gordon reaches out in turn, and gently closes John’s fingers around the bottle again, offers a slight shake of his head and the suggestion of a smile. “Nah. You got it, Johnny. You’re tougher than one pill, brother. All you gotta do is not take it. Simple.”

John laughs faintly at that, shakes his head. There’s a flicker, just the briefest flash of his old self, weary though he sounds when he answers, “I think you massively underestimate how difficult that actually is.”

Gordon breaks into a proper grin at that, “Yeah, well. I said simple. I didn’t say easy.”

John starts to toy with the lid of the pill bottle again, the brand new beginning of a nervous tic he’ll have for weeks to come. “I suppose I’ll have to take what I can get.”


	25. Chapter 25

A few weeks later, and Virgil waits nervously for his brother at the airport. It’s Scott he’s waiting for, but it’s John he’s thinking of, even as a pair of double doors from the arrival gates swing open, and Scott comes sauntering through them, clad in a slate grey leather jacket, a pair of aviators, and with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Virgil waves, but Scott doesn’t, just gives a grin and a nod in acknowledgment, and doesn’t hurry his pace.

Eighteen months ago, Scott had a gun in his mouth, and was probably closer to deliberately ending his own life than anyone Virgil’s ever known.

It’s possible that John might just be the runner up, in that morbid category, and if  _that_  isn’t the most horrifying thought Virgil’s had lately, he’ll eat one of his boots.

This is probably going to come up the next time he talks to his therapist, but for now, he’s got to talk to Scott.

Because they’ve got something to talk about, and both of them know it, but equally they’re both pretending this is just a casual meeting at the airport, the first time they’ve seen each other since Christmas, exchanging greetings and hugs and slaps on the back. Virgil hefts his brother’s duffel bag over his shoulder and Scott tips his sunglasses up onto his forehead and makes cracks about Colorado’s weather and his eight hour layover, as they walk back to where Virgil’s parked his truck. On the drive back to Virgil’s apartment, they make the usual smalltalk, discussing home and family and what they’ve both been up to, and all of it in the abstract. Scott even casually inquires about how spring break had gone, and Virgil casually gives him a vaguely positive non-answer. Scott doesn’t ask again.

Not that Virgil intends for him to need to ask. He unlocks the door to his apartment and deposits Scott’s bag on the couch, throws his car keys into a bowl in the little kitchen of his modest one bedroom apartment. The kitchen shares a space with the living room, a breakfast bar with a couple of barstools all that separates them. The bedroom and bathroom are across from each other, on the other side of the living room and down a short hallway. Scott makes a comment about not having had this much space to himself since Christmas, and Virgil forces a half-hearted grin at the joke, though he knows what’s about to happen, and he’s so nervous he feels a little sick to his stomach.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he instructs, and gestures to the couch. The coffee table is a piece of furniture best described as “functional”, and has a similarly functional collection of objects on it; a few remotes, a halfway assembled model car, a jar of pencils and a collection of Virgil’s sketchbooks. One of these has been placed deliberately atop the others, at what Virgil thinks is a suggestively inviting angle. “Can I grab you a drink?”

Scott’s already shrugged out of his jacket and dropped himself onto the couch, all long limbed and cavalier, as he gives Virgil a thumbs up from across the back of his couch. “I’d just about kill for a beer, unless you’ve got anything stronger hanging around.”

“Just half a six pack in the fridge.” Virgil doesn’t mention that it’s only one in the afternoon, nor does he mention the mostly full bottle of Wild Turkey, tucked at the very back of his very highest cabinet. He grabs a pair of bottles, snaps the caps off, and circles around out of the kitchen. He hands one to his brother, but doesn’t sit down. Instead he puts his own bottle back down on the counter and clears his throat. Every move he makes feels awkward and forced and poorly choreographed, as he jerks a thumb over his shoulder towards the hallway, as though this is something he needs to gesture about. “I’ll, uh. I’ll be right back. Bathroom.”

If Scott notices anything like awkwardness, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He just lifts his beer bottle in a vague salute, and says, “Don’t fall in.”

Virgil leaves, not that it takes much leaving to cross to the other side of his living room. He ducks down the hallway to the bathroom, steps inside and shuts the door. A few seconds pass, then a whole minute. He realizes a little too late that if Scott’s going to get the chance to get bored enough to page through the sketchbooks on the coffee table, then Virgil might have to make himself absent for an embarrassingly long time. It’s a small price to pay, but it makes him wonder how long it’s going to take. Scott’s never been good at waiting and his impatience is a trait he shares with Gordon. Gordon would probably be bored already.

Virgil gives it five whole minutes. He watches them tick past on the screen of his phone, and then reaches out to flush the toilet for good measure. He runs the bathroom taps for a respectable thirty extra seconds, and only then does he slowly push the bathroom door open, peering down the hallway and then practically creeping back into the living room.

And Scott hasn’t disappointed him. Virgil knew he wouldn’t.

He’s sitting forward on the couch, his beer half-finished and abandoned on the coffee table, sweating from the half-full mark. He’s had the decency to use one of Virgil’s sketchbooks as a coaster, but the one Virgil had wanted him to pick up is open in his hands, and he’s leaning forward as he reads it, head bowed and brow furrowed. Even at distance, Virgil can see what he’s reading, two torn out sheets of paper. These are, appropriately, the letter that Virgil had written to him, never imagining he might ever actually read it. He’d turned them sideways and let them bookmark the relevant part of his sketchbook, so they stuck out, obvious. From across the room, he can see Scott’s blue eyes skimming down the page, wide with shock and fixed on the words in front of him.

Virgil’s reread the letter since writing it in the first place, he’d very deliberately gone back over it, wanted to make sure that it got the point across effectively. He’s a little ashamed of the anger he’d poured out onto the page, all his disbelief and frustration with his brother, with John and his attitude, and the whole unbelievable situation, but it had been honest, and honesty matters here and now.

Scott comes to the end of the second page, flips it over and finds it blank. He lets the sketchbook fall open to the place the letter had bookmarked, the pages where Virgil had tried to hash out the details of John’s addiction. Side effects and symptoms, the expected timeline of Adderall withdrawal. A handful of loose drawings, attempting to capture of the state of his brother’s hands, his face. It’s not just the fundamental structure of the sketch that make John look skeletal; things had really gotten that bad. Scott pores over all of it, reading and rereading, flipping through the next few pages, though these are sparsely populated. A few still life drawings of one thing or another around the cottage, a loosely made map of the beach and the lagoon behind it, the spit of land connected to the mainland. A scrawled down recipe for Virgil’s version of their mother’s tomato soup, made vegan. A few loose gesture sketches of Gordon, who’s always been an impressively dynamic figure to try and catch on the page, whenever he can be captured sitting still enough to sketch. As Scott continues to turn pages, the sketchbook returns to the mundanity of Virgil’s day to day life, scrawled out calculations and notes from class, little geometrical doodles in the margins.

Scott closes the book again.

He takes a deep breath before he looks up, and fixes Virgil with a hard, penetrating stare. “Is this some sort of art thing?” he asks, blunt. “Because I can’t always tell about that kinda bullshit, Virg. So if this is some sort of…some sort of weird made-up project for some sort of class—”

Virgil has to swallow and retrieve his voice from the back of his throat before he can cut Scott off, “It’s not.”

Scott’s jaw sets as he opens the sketchbook again, and his thumb ghosts over a drawing scrawled in the corner, “Well, I was gonna say, it would be in really poor fucking taste. Virgil, what the  _fuck_? What the hell is this shit?”

It’s probably awkward to stay standing at the edge of the living room, but it seems like it would be awkward to approach, so Virgil just lingers at the edge of the carpet, shifting his weight uneasily. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans, to spare himself having to come up with something to do with them. “Spring break.”

“ _This_  is what happened? Back in March, when you texted me outta nowhere about Grandpa Grant and his drinking,  _this_  is what was really going on?”

Virgil nods.

“John’s a  _drug addict_?”

He nods again, and even that feels like a betrayal. He’s engineered this whole scenario so that Scott can find out the truth about the brother they have between them—but even now, guilt twists through him, churning in his guts like an augur, because he wasn’t supposed to tell Scott. He’d  _sworn_ that he wasn’t going to tell Scott.

And, if he’s being technical, he hasn’t.

If John ever finds out, somehow, Virgil doesn’t think he’ll appreciate the distinction.


	26. Chapter 26

A few months later and Virgil takes his older brother out to dinner, the same way he had intended to, when he’d flown out to Boston for spring break. This time he’s flown out to LA, and the occasion is the six month anniversary of his brother’s sobriety.

From amphetamines, anyway. The pair of them have had a rich, luxuriant five course meal at one of the best restaurants in the city, and in the afterward they’ve adjourned to the bar, though so far the night’s total is just one drink apiece. John has a vodka tonic sitting half finished at his elbow. Virgil’s accidentally ordered a bourbon, just out of habit, though with what present company makes him consider, this feels a little bit awkward. He directs his attention to his brother, and hopes the fact that he’s ignoring his drink goes ignored.

The past six months have been good to John. It’s enough time that that the last of the drug that had ravaged his system is long since gone. With Gordon’s strict and occasionally overbearing instruction, he’s also regained about twenty-odd pounds. He’s still relatively slender for his height, but no longer dangerously underweight. Under their father’s watchful eye he’s been folded into an internship at Tracy Industries, and by all accounts is thriving in an appropriately challenging environment, now that he’s gotten past the rocky beginnings of his recovery. John’s no longer highly-strung and edgy, less obviously anxious or uneasy in social settings. Conversation with him is easy and casual; and though his sense of humour has gained a darker cast to it than it ever had previously, it’s still possible to make him smile. Virgil’s thrilled to see his brother seeming so much like his old self, and he goes on to say so.

“It’s good to have you back, Jaybird. Happy six months.” Virgil pauses a moment, lifts his glass and taps it lightly against the rim of his brother’s, making a toast he knows John wouldn’t accept of his own accord. Knowing the way John can get about effusive displays of emotion, he’s very careful to keep his tone casual as he carefully tacks on what he came out to tell his brother, “I’m really proud of you, John. I mean it.”

“Thanks.” Predictably, John sidesteps the sentiment with the bare minimum of acknowledgment, and deliberately pulls his glass away before Virgil can attempt another gesture. Perhaps as a point of concession, he  _does_  take a drink, and Virgil is forced to do the same, because it’s bad luck not to.

It’s a decent glass of whiskey, but the aroma of it is still the wrong kind of familiar. Without meaning it to, a drink to his brother turns into a drink to the memory of his grandfather. Virgil clears his throat and pushes past it. “Six months is nothing to shake a stick at, though, J. I feel like I should’ve gotten you a present. Is it like wedding anniversaries? First month, paper; second month, wood; third month, pottery…”

That’s the sort of thing that catches at the slightly morbid edge of what John finds funny these days, and it gets him to chuckle lightly, and banter right back, “Oh, no, that doesn’t sound right. First month, crippling depression; second month, high anxiety to the point of literal panic; third month, abject self-loathing—are there greeting cards for that, you think?”

“I’m pretty sure Hallmark would’ve had me covered.”

“Sure. In between ‘Sorry For Your Loss’ and 'Happy Sixth Birthday’, there’s 'Maybe Try to Spend Less Time Blankly Disassociating in the Shower’.”

Virgil grins. “So I should’ve gone with flowers, is what you’re saying.”

John shakes his head. “Maybe someday someone will manage to convey to me how to correctly react to receiving flowers, but no one’s done it yet.”

“Box of chocolates.”

“I don’t like chocolate.”

“Fruit basket.”

“I’m on strike from fruit.”

Virgil blinks. “Why the hell…?”

“Gordon’s had me drinking a twenty-four ounce smoothie every morning for the past six months, he ruined fruit. Fruit is bad now.”

Virgil shakes his head, takes another drink before he remembers he’d decided not to. “Jeez. You know what, maybe I’m glad I didn’t send anything, this is starting to sound like a goddamn minefield. I just thought you might want to mark the occasion. Six months and all. You should have  _something_.”

“Well, it’s not like I don’t have  _anything_.” Appropriate to the occasion, though perhaps not the venue, John dips a hand into the pocket of his dark grey slacks, and fishes out a medallion, bronze and deep dark blue enamel. He lays it on the bar top for his brother to see, and adds, a little sheepishly, “Uncle Lee keeps sending them. Twenty-sixth of every month, like clockwork.”

John’s placed the token so that 6 MONTHS faces upward, bounded in on three sides by the words UNITY, SERVICE, and RECOVERY. It’s a nice gesture. Totems are important, even to John, because as sure as there’s an old AA coin laid atop the bar, there’s also certain to be an almost-empty aspirin bottle in his pocket. Virgil helpfully states the obvious, “Well, Uncle Lee’s really proud of you. So’s everyone else.”

“Everyone keeps saying so,” John concedes, a base acknowledgment of the facts instead of anything like a graceful thank you. He downs about half his remaining drink in lieu of having to say anything further, then picks his coin back up, starts to turn it over and over again between his fingertips.

“Aren’t you proud of yourself?” Virgil prompts, after a long minute of silence.

John shrugs. “I have a lot to be proud of,” is his eventual answer, though the hesitance with which he offers it is proof that he doesn’t really feel it. “It’s good that I’ve made it this far.”

For the length of time John spent actively living a lie, in the process of recovering from his addiction, he’s completely and utterly lost any natural aptitude he had for deception. It’s helpful to Virgil that, instead, John tends to stick to carefully formatted versions of the truth. Meticulously crafted statements that he can make sincerely, because they’re functionally true. People who don’t know what they’re listening to will hear what they want to hear. People who know him well will listen carefully to what was actually said. Or in this case, what wasn’t.

“But you don’t feel proud.”

If there’s one thing Virgil’s missed about his brother, it’s his essential thoughtfulness. In the earliest months of his recovery John had been numb and dull and diminished, muted and reticent and deeply reluctant to talk about anything as far as his own internal state was considered. Difficult questions would invariably leave him blank and helpless, lost in the absence of an answer. Virgil’s consultations with his own therapist had been full of reassurances that this was normal, and that John was in the process of putting himself back together, and that eventually Virgil’s patience with him would be rewarded.

And it has been. It’s taken months, almost the entire half a year, but it’s paid off. Virgil calls his brother every other day, and though it’s taken a long time, he’s finally managed to coax John into trusting him enough to occasionally share his thoughts and feelings, even if doing so doesn’t come naturally to him.

He thinks about his answer for a long time before he offers it, quiet and honest, “I don’t see why I should be proud of something I still hate about myself.”

It’s a bleak enough sort of sentiment that Virgil winces—but at the same time, he’s had the inside track to John’s thoughts and feelings for long enough to recognize progress. He’s come far enough in six months that his addiction is something he hates  _about_  himself, rather than the  _reason_  he hates himself. It’s a subtle difference, but it still counts. And even though it’s probably not the right moment to say so, Virgil’s still proud of his brother, for that.

He’s not sure what to say, but he’s had time to learn that sometimes there’s nothing John wants to hear. Instead, he reaches out to put a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder, just to let him know he’s being listened to. Virgil knows him well enough by now to know that long silences are a good indicator of the fact that there’s something John wants to talk about. Half a year ago, before this had all started, he hadn’t known how to listen. For now, he orders them each another drink, and waits patiently for John to figure out what he needs to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more part to go. Epilogue to the epilogue. Thanks for reading, I promise it'll be worth it ❤


	27. Chapter 27

Exactly one year later, the three of them find their way back to a seaside cottage in Martha’s Vineyard. This time it’s an occasion and not an impromptu escape. This time the three of them have something to celebrate, instead of something to hide. As of March 26th, 2057, it’s been a full year since John’s last dose of the drug that would’ve killed him, and it only seems right that they’ve come back to where they started.

Even the day itself had been nicer, though still crisp and cold at the end of March. They’d all flown into Boston, John and Gordon out from LAX to BOS. Virgil up from Denver. They’d rented a car at the airport, made the drive from the city in excellent time. This time around it was a nice little roadtrip, their four hour drive out, with music and junk food and good conversation. Virgil had driven once again, but this time John had been sharp enough to call shotgun, and they’d stuck Gordon in the backseat with the luggage, enough for a week, another spring break together. Vacationing on the coast. Playing cards and talking about old times. Eating junk food and sleeping in. Getting along again, the way brothers should.

It’s a good day. All three of them know precisely what’s brought them together again, but no one’s made explicit mention of just what they’re celebrating. There seems to be a silent threeway agreement to come at it sideways, obliquely. It doesn’t seem quite right to put it into words—not just yet, anyway—though all three of them make small, subtle gestures of their own.

Before making the trek out to the cabin itself, they go grocery shopping in town, and Gordon casually dumps the ingredients for another of Grandpa Grant’s lasagnas into the cart. A combined six pounds of meat and cheese, two whole boxes of pasta, two pounds of tomatoes, and an aluminium roasting pan, four inches deep, to contain the whole thing. Virgil attempts to add the fixings for a basic Caesar salad to the cart, in a feeble effort to offset all the meat, but these are summarily removed and Virgil gets punched in the ribs for his trouble. John adds two loaves of garlic bread and gets an enthusiastic pat on the shoulder, and Gordon’s exuberant praise and gratitude.

With provisions acquired, Virgil detours across town to the liquor store, nominally to pick up a couple six-packs, but secretly to drop a few hundred dollars on a bottle of Scotch for the occasion, which is itself old enough to drink, now that Gordon’s legally old enough to drink it. He stashes it in his backpack and returns to the car.

On the two-mile walk through the woods and up the shore, they make the same easy, casual small talk that’s become the standard. The whole way there, John absently toys and fiddles with a simple bronze coin, enameled in bright red, with a single, serifed Roman numeral on the front, and a simple prayer for serenity on the back. It’s a gift from someone who knows exactly what he’s been through. No one mentions the totem it’s replaced.

It’s a day made better by what goes unsaid. The cabin is exactly the same as the last time, a solitary little cottage at the end of a spit of land that stretches out between the lagoon and the sea. There are three bedrooms and four beds between them. For the same unstated reasons, Virgil and John bunk together, each to a twin bed on opposite sides of the smallest bedroom, sharing a room the way they had growing up. It’s not necessary the way it had been last time, but it seems right.

They settle in, much more easily than last time, and pass a lazy afternoon together. As the sun goes down, Virgil parks himself on the kitchen counter, takes out his sketchbook, starts to fill pages with quick, half minute studies before moving on to a series of enviromental studies of the cottage around them, documenting the shape of the space in a way he hadn’t last time, preserving the memory of where they are, rather than why. John plays hand after hand of Klondike solitaire, but he plays at the kitchen table and chats companionably with his brothers as he does. And Gordon makes lasagna, though he also makes a particular note of the fact that the ingredients for Grandma’s Tuna Casserole are all still there, exactly as they’d replaced them last year. His offer to reprise their grandmother’s specialty is firmly voted down.

The three of them split a six-pack over dinner, taking into account the recency of Gordon’s twenty-first birthday, and a lasagna designed to feed a family five growing boys instead feeds three fully grown adults. It takes a long, lingering hour to get through, though the three of them  _do_  get through it, emptying the pan all the way to its cheese-crusted edges, mostly because none of them are willing to admit defeat.

One demolished-lasagna later, they retire to the living room, and there’s the first concrete acknowledgment of the actual occasion that’s brought them back together. Virgil breaks out his bottle of twenty-two-year-old Johnnie Walker to propose a toast, and gets an actual laugh out of his older brother. This probably has more to do with the third of a six-pack that’s gone before, because it’s not really that funny. But it’s still a nice gesture and John accepts it graciously, and the three of them drink to the year gone by, with minimal ceremony, and settle in to play cards for the rest of the night.

It’s hard to believe how much difference a year has made. A year ago, his older brother was probably in the roughest shape he’d ever been, exhausted and emptied by withdrawal, and buried in the wreckage of what he’d done to his life. A year ago, it would’ve been nearly impossible to imagine Gordon and John having a civil conversation. Now, the pair of them are cheerfully shit-talking each other over a game of gin-rummy, while Virgil pours a second round of drinks and then settles back in his seat. He’s eschewed the card games so far, in favour of wedging himself in the corner of the couch with his sketchbook and his second glass of Scotch, attempting to properly capture the essential quality of his brother’s well-deserved happiness, but apparently this is still too elusive and esoteric, and beyond his skills. It’s still rare to see John really smile, though at least it no longer seems starkly impossible.

Virgil doesn’t know how close he came to losing his brother. He doesn’t know if he  _wants_  to know, if he could stand to have it quantified. If there’s a lesson he’s learned through all of this, it’s that they all need each other more than they’d realized, and that even after all the years they’ve spent growing up and slowly growing apart, when it’s important, they still come back together. Virgil’s pretty sure they always will.

Abruptly it seems wrong that none of them have mentioned it yet, that they haven’t put it into words. That they’re all still pretending around the reason they’re really here, just what exactly they have to celebrate. John’s eternally taciturn and Gordon usually needs a nudge to get these sorts of things started, and so Virgil clears his throat and sits up. This is enough to get both of his brothers’ attention and their game stops midway through, even as Virgil shifts himself forward on the couch, sitting closer to John than John might strictly prefer.

“Hey,” he starts, and then feels a little sheepish in a way he doesn’t usually, and probably wouldn’t if he weren’t three and a half drinks in and starting to really feel it. The moment of embarrassment steals away the depth of the sentiment he’d wanted to express, and leaves him fumbling for it, til all he can come up with is, “Guys? I’m…I’m glad we’re all here. Again. Together.” He pauses, reaches out to catch his older brother’s narrow shoulder, with a slight, affectionate squeeze, and adds, “Still.”

And it’s exactly the right thing to say.

* * *

_the end_

* * *

 

art via [@auroralynne](http://auroralynne.tumblr.com/)


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